The Groom steps forward again.
Not fast.
Not rushing.
Just the quiet forward motion of something that knows the entire village
bends to **his** will.
Irvine drags Inara backward—
but the square tilts, and the street behind them bends into a slope.
"Inara—careful!"
She slips, grabbing his arm.
The earth cracks—
and both of them fall through.
The floor collapses beneath their feet with a deep, ancient groan.
Air rushes past their faces. Gravel tears at their skin.
Irvine twists mid-fall, pulling Inara against him and rolling so his back
takes the impact when they hit the ground.
They crash into darkness.
Silence.
Dust.
A faint metallic smell.
A bunker tunnel.
One of the ones from WWII—
but deeper, narrower, older than anything documented.
"Inara—are you hurt?" Irvine pants.
"I—I'm okay," she whispers, shaking. "You…?"
"I'll live."
He helps her sit up.
Above them, the Groom's shadow stretches across the broken hole,
leaning over, but not entering.
He waits.
Watchful.
Patient.
The wedding aisle he built has sunk into the earth…but his ceremony
continues.
Irvine raises the flashlight.
The beam flickers—
then stabilizes just enough to reveal the bunker walls.
They…
pulse.
The concrete seems to expand with each breath, contracting with each exhale,
like the ribs of a sleeping beast.
Inara clamps a hand over her mouth.
"Oh God… it's breathing."
"Don't focus on the walls," Irvine mutters. "Focus on me."
She clutches his sleeve.
A low humming vibrates beneath their feet.
Not machinery.
Not wind.
Something alive.
Irvine stands first, steadying her as she rises.
The walkie sputters with static—
then a faint voice:
"…Inara…"
Not the Groom.
A woman.
Soft. Sad.
The bride from 1943.
Inara's pulse spikes.
"She's here."
The tunnel lights flicker on—
dim, yellow, trembling like candlelight.
A message scrawled across the nearest wall becomes visible:
**RETURN THE BRIDE.**
Irvine rips his gaze away before Inara can read the rest.
But she already sees it.
"…OR BLEED IN HER PLACE."
The Groom's handwriting.
Long strokes.
Precise.
Carved into the concrete as if with a bone.
Irvine grabs her shoulders.
"Inara. Look at me. Only me."
Her breath shudders out.
He squeezes gently.
"You're not replacing anyone. You're mine."
Her eyes fill instantly—
but they keep moving, because the tunnel begins to tremble again.
Far behind them, something drags across the floor.
Slow.
Scraping.
Hunting.
Irvine takes her hand.
"This way."
They run deeper into the tunnel, their footsteps echoing between the
breathing walls.
The air shifts.
A heavy door slams somewhere far off.
A metal valve creaks open.
Another closes.
It's not random movement.
The tunnel is guiding them.
"Why is it pushing us forward?" Inara whispers between gulps of air.
Irvine doesn't answer.
He has a guess.
A terrible one.
The Groom is herding them.
Preparing them.
The tunnel narrows, forcing Irvine to turn sideways.
He shields Inara with his body, keeping her close.
Behind them—footsteps.
Slow.
Measured.
Matching their pace.
"Don't look back," Irvine murmurs.
"I wasn't going to," she trembles.
He squeezes her hand again.
"Stay with me."
A faint light appears far ahead.
A doorway—
rectangular, metallic, half-open, spilling pale bluish light into the corridor.
They sprint toward it.
Halfway there—
a shadow spills across the floor behind them, stretching unnaturally long.
The Groom is above ground,
but his reach…
his influence…
is already here.
Irvine forces himself not to look.
They reach the metal door.
He shoves it open.
For a moment, they freeze.
They've stumbled into a WWII command room—
desks overturned, helmets rusted, bullet casings scattered.
But the worst part—
Every photo on the walls
shows the same man.
The Groom.
In uniform.
In ceremony.
At an altar.
Standing next to a woman whose face is always scratched out.
Inara's skin crawls.
"Irvine… this room is his."
"It doesn't matter," he says tightly. "We're passing through."
But then—
the headset on the old radio crackles.
A male voice whispers through the static:
"Irvine."
His blood runs cold.
"How—" Inara whispers.
The voice continues—
this time with the Groom's distorted echo layered behind it:
"Bring. Her. Back."
Irvine grabs the radio and hurls it across the room.
It shatters.
The walls pulse harder, almost angry.
"Inara—move!"
They run to the back exit—
but it slams shut before they reach it.
Metal locking itself.
Bolts turning on their own.
Inara screams and jumps back.
"Inara!" Irvine catches her.
The Groom's shadow appears beneath the door,
stretching through the crack like liquid darkness.
His voice presses against the bunker like a suffocating weight:
"Your groom…
is dead."
Inara grabs Irvine's face, desperate.
"He's trying to separate us."
He cups her jaw.
"He won't."
But the Groom's shadow coils around her ankles.
NOT touching.
Just circling.
Claiming.
Irvine snaps.
He grabs a rusted entrenching tool from the wall and slams it into the
shadow.
The entire bunker SCREAMS.
Not a sound.
A vibration.
A shockwave that blasts dust from the ceiling.
The shadow recoils.
Inara gasps. "You hurt him."
"No," Irvine says panting.
"He felt it."
The floor begins cracking.
Shadows pour from the walls like ink.
The Groom isn't angry.
He's furious.
Irvine pulls Inara toward the ventilation grate on the far wall.
"Irvine—what are you doing?!"
He rips the grate off.
"Climb."
"It's too small—"
"You'll fit."
"And you?"
He shakes his head.
"I'll follow after. GO."
"Inara. NOW."
Her eyes fill—but she climbs.
Just as she reaches the top—
a hand—
cold, long-fingered, veiled—
emerges from the wall behind Irvine.
Not a shadow.
A **real hand**.
It grabs Irvine's shoulder.
He grunts, slamming back into the concrete.
The Groom's fingers curl, pulling.
Inara screams, reaching for him—
"Irvine!"
The Groom whispers—
soft, resonant, victorious:
"Your place…
is on the altar."
The Groom's fingers tighten on Irvine's shoulder.
Cold—
not temperature cold—
but the kind of cold that sinks *into the marrow*,
like something ancient is threading itself beneath the skin.
"Irvine!" Inara screams from the vent.
He tries to wrench himself free.
Pain rips up his arm—
a sharp, electric jolt that isn't physical.
His vision flickers.
A buried wedding memory that isn't his flashes across his mind:
A bride in a white dress—
walking down an aisle of soldiers.
A war-torn church.
A groom waiting at the altar, face veiled.
And himself—
standing in the groom's place.
"No—" Irvine snarls.
The Groom's hand tightens—
and Irvine's knees almost buckle.
Not possession.
Not yet.
**Synchronization.**
A merging.
The Groom is forcing him to feel what he felt.
To stand where he once stood.
To *become* the groom of the ritual.
Inara claws at the vent grille.
"IRVINE—FIGHT IT!"
Her voice snaps something inside him.
A tether.
A promise.
He forces himself upright, muscles screaming.
"I'm not your replacement," he growls.
The Groom's fingers dig harder into his shoulder.
The walls tremble.
Concrete dust rains from the ceiling.
The tunnel's breathing becomes ragged—
as if the entire bunker is panicking with its master.
Inara tries to crawl back down the vent—
"No, I'm coming to you! Irvine—"
"STOP!" he shouts.
"If he gets both of us—this village will never let us out."
She freezes, sobbing.
"I—I can't leave you."
"You're not leaving."
He grits his teeth through the pain.
"You're climbing. I'll be right behind you."
The Groom shifts closer.
Irvine feels fingertips brush his neck—
measuring him.
Choosing him.
Testing the weight of a new groom.
No.
No no no.
Irvine grabs the entrenching tool with his free arm and swings behind him.
It doesn't hit the Groom directly—
it hits the shadow beneath the Groom's veil.
That's enough.
A screech rips through the bunker.
Metal bends.
Pipes burst.
The light flickers into blinding strobe.
Inara falls backward inside the vent, covering her ears.
Irvine chokes on blood as the force shoves him into the wall.
But the Groom lets go.
For one second.
Just one.
Enough.
Irvine stumbles forward, grabbing the vent's lower edge.
"Inara—GO UP. NOW."
She reaches down with trembling hands.
"You—first—!"
"Inara, MOVE!"
Her eyes fill, but she obeys.
She climbs upward through the narrow shaft, dress tearing on the metal.
Irvine pulls himself up—
—then feels something wrap around his ankle.
Thin.
Cold.
Skeletal.
He looks down.
A hand—
bone fragments showing through rotten skin—
is crawling out of the concrete itself.
Another hand follows.
Then a face.
Not the Groom.
A soldier from the old battalion.
One of his shadow-men.
Long dead but still following orders.
Its jaw unhinges.
Dust spills out.
"Return… the bride…"
Irvine kicks violently, smashing the soldier's wrist against the metal grate.
The bone cracks.
The undead soldier collapses backward, screeching as it melts into the floor.
But other hands crawl out.
Three.
Five.
Nine.
Reaching.
Inara screams, "Irvine—RUN!"
The vent shakes violently as she braces her legs and reaches down.
"Irvine—give me your hand!"
He jumps, grabbing the vent edge—
And the Groom's shadow stretches up the wall in a single, CHILLING rise.
It reaches for Irvine's leg.
No footsteps.
No body.
Just **inevitable reach**.
"Inara—PULL!"
She screams with everything she has, dragging him upward—
The Groom's shadow brushes Irvine's boot—
A cold shot shoots through his leg up to his chest—
his heart seizes—
his breath stutters—
For a moment, Irvine sees himself:
Standing at an altar
in a grey, rotting church
wearing the groom's uniform
veil hanging over his face
Inara walking toward him
eyes empty
hands folded
steps measured
"NO!" Irvine roars.
He slams both feet against the wall and hurls himself into the vent.
Inara falls backward with him, and they crash together inside the shaft.
Below them—
hundreds of hands pull up toward the opening,
clawing at the metal,
dragging their nails in a deafening chorus.
The Groom's voice rises above them all:
"Irvine Hale…"
The vent walls shake violently.
The metal begins to bend inward—
like something is pushing it.
Trying to crawl inside.
Inara sobs into his shoulder.
"Irvine—he's coming in—he's coming in—!"
Irvine wraps his arms around her, shielding her with his body.
His breath is ragged, trembling.
But his voice—
his voice is steel.
"He isn't taking you."
Below them, something SLAMS the vent opening—
hard enough to dent the metal.
Once.
Twice.
THREE TIMES—
CRACK.
The bottom panel tears open.
A tall silhouette fills the gap.
A veil hanging.
A head tilted.
Hands outstretched.
"Inara," he whispers,
"…your groom waits."
Irvine shoves Inara upward, nearly throwing her deeper into the vent.
"GO!"
She disappears into the darkness above.
The Groom reaches upward—
A hand curling around the vent edge—
Fingers long enough to scrape the metal near Irvine's throat.
Irvine stares back, breath shaking—
But defiant.
"I said…"
He drives both boots into the Groom's hand and launches himself upward after Inara.
"…you're not taking her."
The vent door SLAMS shut behind him—
not by Irvine.
By the village.
The Groom's bellow of fury shakes the entire tunnel.