The walkie died with a single choking crackle.
No voice.
No static.
Nothing.
Just the suffocating silence of the underground war village.
"Inara? INARA!" Irvine shouted, shaking the walkie so hard the plastic
flexed. "ANSWER ME—please—just say something—!"
Only the drip of old water replied.
He slammed his fist into the stone wall. Dust cascaded around him like
ashes. His flashlight flickered, struggling to stay alive, exactly like he
was.
"Inara…" he whispered, forehead leaning against the cold stone. "Don't stop
breathing. Don't stop fighting."
He shoved the walkie into his pocket, grabbed Grant's cursed camera, and
forced himself forward.
Every step felt heavier.
Every tunnel felt narrower.
Every shadow felt like a hand reaching for him.
But he ran anyway.
---
The tunnel eventually split again.
Left: a steep incline he didn't recognize.
Right: footprints—small, light, frantic.
Inara's.
He followed them.
Her prints staggered at points, scraping in little arcs where she must have
tripped or stumbled. His chest ached imagining her falling, terrified,
alone.
"Inara. I'm right behind you. Just don't stop."
He whispered it like a prayer, over and over, syncing the words with his
footsteps as if willing her to feel him coming.
The footprints stopped suddenly.
Irvine froze.
They ended at a narrow doorway—half collapsed, half swallowed by roots
creeping through the ceiling. The wood frame bowed inward like a throat
waiting to swallow him whole.
He lifted the camera. Flash ready.
He stepped inside.
---
The room was small—no more than a storage closet. Old trench equipment,
helmets, tattered coats, and shattered crates littered the floor. A rusted
sign lay on its side:
**WEAPONS STORAGE B – 1943**
Irvine's pulse spiked.
A weapons room.
That could save her.
Save them both.
"Inara… were you here?" he murmured.
He raised the flashlight higher—
—and his breath caught.
Her dress.
Torn lace hung from a splintered crate. Mud-smeared. The same shade of white
he had memorized. He grabbed it with shaking fingers.
"Inara…"
He sank to one knee, pressing the torn fabric to his lips.
A soft echo whispered through the narrow hall beyond the door.
Not hers.
A scraping sound.
Something dragging its weight.
Coming closer.
Irvine backed into the weapons room instinctively. His flashlight scanned
the shelves—searching desperately for anything he could use.
Most of the metal was rusted beyond recognition.
A shovel head.
A cracked bayonet.
A dented canister—empty.
Then he saw it.
A trench knife.
Old, but intact.
The blade dull but still solid.
He grabbed it.
The dragging sound grew louder.
A wet inhale followed.
Then a guttural croak—
"…braaai…de…"
"No," Irvine muttered. "You're not going anywhere near her."
A shadow spilled across the doorway.
Not a shape.
A smear of darkness crawling along the floor, pooling thicker like blood
made of night.
Irvine lifted the camera. His thumb hovered over the shutter.
The Groom's distorted soldier crawled into view—jaw broken wide, tongue
dangling, limbs contorted. Its eyes snapped to Irvine's face like a starving
beast recognizing prey.
It lunged.
He pressed the shutter—
FLASH.
The creature recoiled, screeching violently, smashing into the wall. The
flashlight beam shook wildly, shadows sprinting across the room.
Irvine didn't hesitate.
He ran.
---
The corridor tightened, ceiling lower than before. Roots brushed his hair.
Debris scraped his shoulders.
"Inara—please—answer me—"
And then—
The walkie crackled.
A tiny sound.
A faint gasp.
"Irv…ine…"
He stumbled to a halt, chest tightening.
"INARA. Where are you? Tell me—anything, something—what do you see?"
Her voice trembled like she was speaking through tears.
"Trees…"
He froze.
"Trees? Underground?"
"No… I'm not underground anymore…"
His heart dropped.
"How far are you from the bunker? Did you climb up? Did you see a ladder?"
"I—I don't know. The village… moved again."
Of course it did.
The cursed village was alive. Manipulative. Changing shape to separate them.
"Okay, okay, listen carefully. What else do you see?"
He pressed the walkie so hard his knuckles paled.
"A… a fountain… I think. And houses that weren't there before."
The village had rearranged itself into new shapes. New traps.
"Inara, baby, you need to run. Don't stay still."
"I hear him…"
Her voice cracked.
He lost his breath.
"Him?"
"The Groom…"
Cold drenched his spine.
"INARA—RUN. RIGHT NOW."
"No—Irvine—he's closer when I run—he's—"
"RUN!" Irvine screamed so loud it hurt. "If you stop moving, he WILL take
you!"
Another voice slid into the frequency.
Low.
Gravelly.
Possessive.
"…bride…"
Irvine's throat tore.
"DON'T LISTEN TO HIM! MOVE!"
The walkie exploded with static—loud enough to sting his ears.
Then—
A scream.
Her scream.
Silenced abruptly.
"Inara?! INARA ANSWER ME—DON'T STOP—DON'T STOP—"
Silence.
A long, horrible silence.
Then—
The camera in Irvine's hand whirred.
A photo printed.
His fingers trembled as he snatched it.
The image developed slowly… painfully… gray turning to shape… shape turning
to horror.
Inara.
Running through the forest.
Dress torn, hair wild, face streaked with mud and fear.
And behind her—
closer than before—
a towering groom's silhouette.
Its hand reaching for her veil.
"I'm coming," Irvine whispered, tears burning down his face. "I swear, even
if I crawl, I'm coming."
He sprinted.
---
He reached a metal ladder leading upward—one he didn't notice before.
Another shift of the village.
He climbed so fast his hands bled.
At the top, he shoved the hatch aside and emerged into cold night air.
The village was different again.
No shops.
No trenches.
No streets.
Only—
A forest.
And fog.
And in the distance—
A fountain.
The one Inara mentioned.
She had been here.
She was close.
"I'll find you," he panted. "I'll find you, Inara. Just hold on."
A branch snapped somewhere in the woods.
Irvine gripped the knife harder.
"INARA!" he shouted into the night.
A soft voice answered—
Not from the walkie.
From between the trees.
"…run…"
The voice wasn't hers.
But it knew her name.
And it was calling him deeper into the forest.