Irvine ran until his lungs burned.
The tunnels twisted like a maze built by someone who hated straight lines.
Every turn felt wrong. Every shadow felt watched. Every echo mocked him with
the rhythm of approaching footsteps.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
Always slow. Always steady.
The Groom didn't chase.
He advanced.
And somehow… that was worse.
Irvine choked out a breath as he rounded a corner, nearly slipping on the
slick floor. His flashlight beam jittered across rusted pipes, broken helmets,
and walls covered in ritual markings—symbols resembling wedding rings, but
shattered, inverted, dripping.
He stopped at a three-way split.
Left.
Right.
Forward.
All carved with the same line:
**THE BRIDE WILL STAND AT MIDNIGHT.**
His heart slammed painfully.
"Inara… hold on. I'm coming."
He squeezed the walkie, thumb trembling.
"Inara. Talk to me. Anything."
Static.
Then the faintest inhale.
Not hers.
Deeper.
Older.
Hungrier.
He backed up instinctively.
"No… no, you don't talk through her."
The voice answered anyway.
"…groom…"
His spine turned to ice.
A hiss followed—one that made the tunnel walls vibrate.
"…choose…"
Irvine nearly threw the walkie, but he needed it. Needed her. Needed to keep
her tethered to him.
A sudden shriek echoed down the tunnel—a woman's, sharp and raw like her
soul was being pulled apart.
"Inara!"
He sprinted toward the sound.
The passage narrowed, ceiling pressing lower until he had to duck. Pipes
dripped onto his shoulders. Cold water? No. Sticky. The smell—
He wiped his hand on his shirt and didn't look at the dark stain.
The tunnel opened into a circular chamber.
Irvine stumbled inside—and froze.
The room looked like an underground chapel.
Benches made from broken crates lined the sides, facing a shattered altar.
Old candles—long dead—were melted into twisted shapes. On the walls, wedding
photos hung from rusty nails.
No.
Not photos.
Frames.
Empty frames.
As if the pictures had been ripped out… or were waiting to be filled.
A single frame stood in the center of the altar.
Old wood.
Cracked glass.
Ornate design.
And inside it—
A photograph.
Of Inara.
But not from today.
Not from any moment he remembered.
Her dress was older. Torn. Darkened with dirt. Her eyes were wide—not with
fear. With disorientation.
Like she didn't know who she was.
Irvine staggered forward, breath collapsing.
"No… no, no, she didn't take this picture. This wasn't real. This wasn't—"
The floorboards beneath the altar creaked.
"Bride…" a voice whispered behind him.
He spun—
Nothing.
The candles flickered though none were lit.
He forced his shaking hands to lift the picture frame.
Cold.
Ice-cold.
The moment he touched it, the glass fogged as if someone exhaled from the
other side.
"Inara," he breathed, voice breaking. "If you can hear me… I swear I'm not
leaving you here."
A soft thud echoed above. Something moved in the ceiling.
Then—
A soft, desperate voice drifted through the room.
"Irvine…"
His chest seized.
"Inara?! Talk to me. Where are you?"
"I… I don't know…" her voice cracked. "…he… he showed me something…"
"What? What did he show you?"
Silence.
Then a whisper.
"My wedding."
Irvine nearly dropped the frame.
"No. No, Inara, listen to me. Whatever he's showing you—it's not real. It's
not your wedding. It's a ritual."
"He said… we were meant to be together long before I was born…"
Irvine slammed the frame onto the altar.
"YOU DON'T BELONG TO HIM!"
The chamber trembled.
Dust rained from the ceiling. The candles bent away from Irvine as if some
force recoiled from his anger.
He grabbed the walkie tighter.
"Inara. I'm coming to get you. Do you hear me? You fight whatever he's doing.
Fight it."
A shallow breath answered.
"I'm trying…"
The sound of her crying broke through him. It turned something inside him
into fire.
He scanned the room again.
There—
Behind the altar, a narrow passage hidden behind collapsed debris.
Fresh footprints led inside.
Inara's size.
And next to them—
A much larger print.
Boot-shaped.
Deep.
Heavy.
The Groom's.
Irvine's stomach twisted.
He slid through the broken boards, pushing into the passage. The walls
narrowed again. The air got colder. Each step felt like walking into a
freezer.
"Inara," he whispered. "Stay awake for me. Keep talking. Anything."
Her breath came through the walkie—shaking, wet with tears.
"Irvine… I think… I think he wants a trade."
"A trade?"
"He wants…"
Her voice faltered.
"…a groom."
Irvine stopped dead.
The floor creaked beneath him.
"No," he said. "No. Not happening. He doesn't get you. He doesn't get me.
We're leaving together."
Her breath broke.
"I can't move. Irvine—I can't feel my legs—"
His vision blurred with panic.
"I'm coming."
The tunnel opened again.
And Irvine stepped into a ritual hall carved directly into the earth.
Hanging lanterns swayed gently though there was no wind.
Petals—blackened like burnt roses—were scattered on the ground.
And at the far end…
Inara.
Tied to a ceremonial pole, veil torn, her wrists bound with rotted lace.
Her head slumped forward. Her dress stained with mud and ash.
"I—Inara…"
His knees nearly gave.
She lifted her head with agonizing difficulty.
Her eyes found him.
And even with dried tears on her cheeks, she smiled—weak, trembling,
but real.
"Irvine…"
Something moved behind her.
Tall.
Shadowed.
Crowned with a groom's veil that floated like smoke.
The Groom stepped out from the darkness.
He was closer now. Too close. His silhouette wrong, limbs a little too long,
back arched like a marionette pulled by unseen strings.
He raised a hand.
Inara's veil fluttered.
Irvine stepped forward, fury overruling fear.
"You touch her, and I swear—"
The Groom tilted his head.
The lanterns flickered.
The ground vibrated.
And an invisible force slammed Irvine backward into the wall, pinning him
there like an insect under glass.
He couldn't breathe.
The Groom's voice entered his mind, cold and echoing like a century-old vow.
"Groom… chosen."
Irvine's vision darkened.
"No…" he gasped. "I'm not… yours…"
The Groom took another step forward.
"Inara…" he whispered.
Her body trembled violently.
"Midnight," the Groom murmured. "Wedding… begins."
Inara screamed his name.
"IRVINE!"
He fought the invisible pressure, every muscle ripping with pain.
The Groom reached toward her—
—his fingers inches from her veil.
The walkie in Irvine's pocket crackled once.
A voice—not Inara's.
Not the Groom's.
Something else.
A third presence.
"Irvine. Do. Not. Let. Him. Finish."
Everything went silent.
And the Groom turned.