The Groom turned.
Not toward Inara.
Toward the ceiling—
as if the voice from Irvine's walkie had provoked something ancient and
territorial inside him.
The lantern flames snapped upright in a single vertical line, like soldiers
standing at attention.
Irvine collapsed to the ground, the invisible force releasing him with a
violent jolt. Air rushed back into his lungs. His ribs screamed, but he
crawled immediately toward Inara.
"Inara—look at me. Stay with me."
Her chin trembled, tears streaking through the dust on her cheeks.
"I—Irvine… he's—"
"I'm here," he whispered, pressing his forehead to hers. "Not leaving you."
The Groom's veil shifted slightly, as if stirred by a breath no living
creature made.
The massive figure began to drift backward, melting into the dark hall
behind the pillar—slow, deliberate, like an offended deity returning to its
throne.
Irvine reached for the lace binding Inara's wrists.
He tugged.
The lace didn't tear.
It tightened.
Inara gasped sharply as the rotted fabric constricted, digging into her skin.
The lace moved on its own—snaking, pulling, locking her tighter to the
pillar.
"Irvine," she whimpered. "It hurts—"
"I know—I know—hold still—"
A metallic SNAP echoed.
His flashlight flickered.
Then everything went black.
"NO—NO—NO—"
Irvine smacked the flashlight until it hummed back to life.
Inara was gone.
Only the pillar remained.
Torn lace dangled like abandoned webbing.
Footprints—small, bare—led into one of the tunnels.
Irvine's blood iced over.
"Inara!"
His scream bounced through the labyrinth, twisting into a hundred warped
echoes that sounded like mocking laughter.
He stumbled into the nearest tunnel, chest heaving, flashlight beam shaking
with every step.
"Inara!" he yelled again, cracking. "ANSWER ME—!"
Silence.
Then—
A faint, metallic **CLICK**.
He froze.
Another click.
Then another.
A rhythm.
Not footsteps.
A camera shutter.
Irvine sprinted.
"INARA!"
The clicking grew louder—rapid, frantic, like someone was taking photos in
the dark hallway ahead.
He skidded around a corner—
And his stomach dropped.
Grant's camera lay in the dirt.
The screen was glowing.
Taking photos by itself.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Printing polaroids that spilled onto the ground like dead leaves.
Irvine crouched, breath shaking, flipping through the images with numb
fingers.
Frame 1: A blurry hallway.
Frame 2: A shadow stretching toward the camera.
Frame 3: A hand—too long, too pale.
Frame 4: A veil.
Frame 5: A bride's silhouette.
Frame 6:
Inara.
Her back turned.
Arms outstretched—
as if reaching for someone in the dark.
Frame 7:
Irvine.
Standing behind her.
But he wasn't there.
He wasn't anywhere near her.
Panic stabbed his chest.
"Inara—please—please TALK TO—"
Something rolled out from the shadows behind the camera.
A shoe.
A white sneaker.
Grant's.
Irvine grabbed it, lifting it with trembling hands.
The sole was coated in mud—
and blood.
Fresh.
He followed the streak like a lifeline, flashlight trembling, breath
shattering every few seconds. The tunnel sloped downward, deeper into the
earth.
The metallic scent grew stronger.
Iron.
Thick, warm, suffocating.
And then he saw it.
Grant's body.
Propped against the wall in a grotesque imitation of a prewedding pose.
Hands folded neatly on his lap.
Head tilted.
Eyes open—
but the irises were gone.
Two hollow sockets staring at nothing.
And on his lips—
a smile.
Irvine staggered back, bile rising. He clutched the walkie so tightly the
plastic creaked.
"Inara…" he whispered. "You need to hear me. Grant is dead."
Static.
Then—
"…Irvine?"
He sagged with relief. "Inara—where are you? Are you hurt?"
A shaky breath.
"I—I don't know. Everything keeps moving. I swear I was near the altar and
then… suddenly I'm somewhere else."
"Listen to me. Don't stop talking. I'm following a trail—just keep going,
okay?"
"I'm scared…"
Her voice cracked.
He pressed the walkie to his forehead, shaking.
"I know. I know, baby. But I'm coming. Just breathe. Stay with me."
"…Irvine?"
"Yes?"
"Did you touch my veil?"
His blood froze.
"No. I'm nowhere near—"
A second voice whispered through her walkie.
"…bride…"
He screamed into the device, raw and desperate:
"INARA, RUN. NOW."
Something growled behind him.
Low.
Wet.
Hungry.
He whipped around—
Two distorted soldiers crawled out of the tunnel's darkness, limbs dragging,
bones cracking with every movement. Their jaws hung open unnaturally wide,
as if screaming silently.
Blood dripped from their necks onto the floor.
Grant's blood.
Irvine stumbled backward, flashlight beam skidding across the floor.
The creatures raised their heads in perfect unison—
sniffing—
tracking—
finding him.
They lunged.
"I—INARA GET TO OPEN GROUND—DON'T HIDE—DON'T—"
He sprinted.
Tunnels blurred into a single winding nightmare. The creatures scraped the
floor behind him, shrieking like metal under pressure.
He took a sharp right—
Dead end.
"No… no no no—"
He spun.
They were inches away.
And then—
A flare of white light exploded through the tunnel behind them like a
miniature sun.
The creatures recoiled, screeching, clawing at the stone as if burning.
Irvine shielded his eyes.
"Inara…?"
The light pulsed again.
Not fire.
Not a flare.
A camera flash.
He grabbed Grant's camera from the floor and pointed it toward the creatures.
Not knowing why.
Not thinking.
Just acting.
He pressed the shutter.
FLASH.
The creatures shrieked—slammed backward—bones cracking as they hit the wall.
He pressed again.
FLASH.
They dissolved into shadows.
Then into nothing.
He sagged against the wall, shaking.
The camera hummed.
A new photo printed out.
He picked it up—
And froze.
The picture showed Inara—
her face pale, tears streaking down her cheeks—
standing alone in a dark corridor.
Behind her, just barely visible—
a tall silhouette with a groom's veil drifting behind him.
"Inara," Irvine breathed, heart hammering violently, "I'm coming. I swear
to God, I'm coming."
Static answered him.
Then the softest whisper came through:
"Irvine…
he's right behind me…"
The walkie cut out.