Inara didn't remember how long she'd been running.
Seconds?
Minutes?
Hours?
Time had folded into one long, choking sob as she tore through the forest,
dodging twisted branches and roots that clawed at her dress like desperate
hands.
"Please," she whispered hoarsely. "Please—Irvine—please talk to me—"
Static answered.
Then silence.
The kind that makes your ears ring.
She clutched the walkie to her chest, trembling so violently her teeth
clicked together.
The trees thinned suddenly.
She stumbled into an open clearing—mud-soaked ground, grass dead and brittle,
shredded by what looked like claw tracks. A single stone fountain stood in the
center, cracked and bone-white under the moonlight.
Not a drop of water inside.
Only teeth.
Human teeth.
Hundreds of them. Piled like offerings.
Her stomach lurched.
She backed away, heart hammering—
And froze.
Someone stood behind the fountain.
A woman.
No—
not a woman.
A shape wearing the memory of a woman.
A gown.
Tattered.
Satin blackened with old soot.
Veil torn, drifting even though no wind blew.
Inara's throat locked.
The bride.
The one from the photos.
Her face was hidden under the veil, but her head tilted too gently, too
gracefully for anything alive. Like she was listening to someone whisper
from beneath the earth.
"I… I don't want to hurt you," Inara whispered, voice cracking. "Please… I
just want to find him…"
The bride lifted her hand.
A slow, delicate movement—
the way someone would gesture for another woman to come closer, to share a
secret.
Inara stepped back.
The bride floated forward.
Not walked.
Floated.
Her feet didn't touch the ground.
The hem of her dress remained untouched by mud, hovering an inch above it.
Inara stumbled over a root, landing on her elbows.
The bride drifted closer, veil falling forward.
That's when Inara saw it—
Her face wasn't missing.
It was two faces layered wrong.
One smiling.
One screaming.
Both shifting, melting into the next expression like a slide projector caught
between images.
"No—no no no—stay back—"
The bride paused.
Then she lifted her veil with a single, trembling hand.
Inara's breath shattered.
It was her.
Her own face.
Her own eyes.
Her own mouth twisted into a smile she had never made.
A corrupted reflection.
A future she was never meant to reach.
The bride whispered—
but her lips didn't move.
The sound came from everywhere at once.
"…run… bride…"
Inara screamed, scrambling to her feet.
The forest shifted instantly—trees re-arranging, branches reaching,
ground curving. The entire landscape bent toward her path like the village
was herding her.
"A trap—this is a trap—"
She sprinted blindly.
Behind her, a long veil drifted like a pale kite in pursuit.
The bride didn't walk.
She glided.
Silent.
Fluid.
Relentless.
Every few seconds, Inara glanced back—
each time, the bride was closer.
"Inara!"
A voice cracked through the walkie.
Irvine.
Her chest caved in with relief.
"Irvine—I—I saw her—the bride—she looks like me—she LOOKS LIKE ME—"
"Inara, listen—STOP LOOKING BACK. Just tell me where you are."
"The fountain—I was there—but the forest changed—please, I don't—I don't
know where—"
"Inara. Baby. Breathe."
She tried.
Failed.
Tried again.
Her lungs felt like shards of glass.
"I can't—she's following me—I can feel her—she's not walking—she's—"
A branch snapped beside her.
Not from her.
From something stepping out of the dark.
She turned—
A soldier-creature crawled between the trees, jaw slack, neck broken,
ribcage heaving.
But it didn't attack.
It bowed its head.
To her.
Like she was the bride they had been waiting for.
"Inara—RUN. NOW."
She bolted forward, gasping as the trees rearranged again, opening a narrow
path between trunks.
"Irvine, I'm following where the forest is opening—"
"Don't trust the forest!"
"I don't have a choice!"
Suddenly—
the walkie erupted with a distorted voice.
Not Irvine.
Deep.
Layered.
Drowning in static.
"…bride…"
She nearly threw the walkie.
"No—NO—don't yank the frequency—don't—"
The forest dimmed.
The moonlight flickered out.
Like a candle being pinched.
Darkness swallowed her whole.
Then—
a soft glow appeared ahead.
Torchlight.
A tall silhouette stood behind it—broad shoulders, straight posture,
formal attire that had rotted into tatters.
The Groom.
His veil drifted like smoke.
He turned his head slightly—
very slightly—
just enough to acknowledge her existence.
Her blood stopped moving.
"Inara!" Irvine's voice cracked through the walkie, raw, furious, terrified.
"DON'T LET HIM TOUCH YOU. DO YOU HEAR ME? DON'T—LET—HIM—"
The Groom extended his hand.
Her veil floated upward—as if pulled by invisible fingers.
The ground trembled under her feet.
The soldier-creatures knelt around her, forming a circle.
A ceremony.
"Inara…"
Irvine's voice dropped into a broken whisper.
"Run… please… run for me…"
She turned—
And ran so hard her lungs nearly tore open.
Branches whipped her.
Mud swallowed her shoes.
Her dress shredded against thorns.
The Groom's presence pressed against her back—
not touching—
just following,
just claiming,
just choosing.
Her walkie crackled one last time.
"I'm coming," Irvine whispered.
"I don't care what he is. I'll tear through every one of them.
Just—stay—alive."
The forest opened into a steep slope.
She didn't slow.
She didn't think.
She leapt.
The world tilted.
Air shredded past her ears.
She tumbled down the hill, rolling, scraping, choking on dirt.
Then—
She hit solid ground.
Pain shot through her spine.
She groaned, forcing her swollen eyes open.
A bunker door stood ten meters ahead.
Another one.
Wide open.
Waiting.
A long veil drifted down the slope behind her.
The bride stood at the top—watching.
Not approaching.
Not chasing.
Waiting for her to enter the bunker.
Waiting for the ceremony to continue.
Inara sobbed once, a broken sound.
Then—
Very slowly—
two pale fingers curled around the bunker doorway from inside.
Someone—
something—
was beckoning.
"Inara…"
Irvine's voice returned—faint, but alive.
"Tell me you're not near a bunker—please—tell me you're not—"
She stared at the open darkness.
"I'm sorry…" she breathed.
And the Groom stepped into the doorway.
The Groom didn't move.
He only *tilted his head*—a small, elegant motion that somehow felt more
violent than a scream.
Inara choked on air.
The veil behind him drifted without wind, lifting and falling like something
beneath it was breathing. Every time it rose, the torches flickered outward
instead of inward—as if repelled, not drawn.
The world felt reversed.
Wrong.
"Inara… please tell me you're not near a bunker," Irvine whispered through
the walkie—voice low, shaking in a way she had never heard before.
Inara took one tiny step back.
The Groom took one silent step forward.
Her foot slid on loose dirt. She gasped, arms flailing for balance.
He froze instantly—
head snapping toward her ankle,
as if every sound she made was something to memorize.
"Inara?" Irvine's voice sharpened. "What do you see? Talk to me."
She forced air into her lungs.
"I—I think he's choosing the entrance," she whispered. "Like he… wants me
to go inside."
A long silence stretched across the frequency.
Then Irvine said, very carefully:
"Inara. Don't move. Just don't… breathe too loudly."
Too late.
Her breath hitched—
—and the Groom reacted.
Not by stepping.
But by *turning his entire body* without a sound, shoulders swiveling first,
then spine, then head last, veil trailing behind like smoke following a
command.
Inara trembled so violently the walkie shook in her hands.
"Irv—he looked at me. Not at my face—at my heartbeat."
Something cracked in Irvine's exhale.
"Inara, listen to me. I need you to get away from the entrance. If you walk
into that bunker, you won't come back out the same. You hear me? You won't
be *you*."
She knew.
God, she knew.
Her body felt pulled toward the darkness as if the air itself wanted her.
The bride still stood on the slope—watching silently.
Waiting.
Inviting.
"Inara…" Irvine said, voice breaking. "…fight him."
"I'm trying," she whispered.
But the truth?
She wasn't sure she could.
Every time she blinked, the phantom bride's warped, shifting face appeared
behind her eyelids—two expressions fighting to exist at once.
Smiling.
Screaming.
Beckoning.
Her vision blurred. The cold seeped into her bones.
She swallowed hard.
"Irvine… something's wrong with my head. I keep hearing her. The bride."
"What does she say?" Irvine's panic sharpened like a blade.
Inara pressed her palm to her forehead, trying to steady herself.
"She keeps saying…"
Her voice cracked.
"...'I did not run fast enough.'"
Irvine cursed under his breath—a raw, guttural sound.
"Inara, look at your hands. Are they shaking because you're cold or because
you're… slipping?"
She looked down.
Her fingers were trembling, but not from cold.
They twitched—
like puppet strings pulled by something unseen.
"No…" she whispered. "No no no—Irvine—he's trying to make me *walk*."
"THEN STOP. FIGHT HIM."
Her legs tensed involuntarily.
The Groom lifted an arm—
slowly—
and her knees buckled like her body wanted to kneel.
"No—stop—STOP—"
"Inara!" Irvine roared through the walkie. "LISTEN TO ME. I AM YOUR FIANCÉ.
NOT HIM. HE DOES NOT OWN YOU. HE NEVER WILL."
The Groom turned his head slightly, veil drifting sideways—
as if acknowledging Irvine's voice with mild interest.
Inara gasped as her legs froze halfway between standing and kneeling.
"Irvine—I can't move—"
"Yes you can."
His voice softened.
Painful.
Desperate.
"Baby, listen to me. I know you're scared. I know the cold feels real. I know
he's whispering things that feel like truth. But you're stronger than him.
Stronger than this place."
Her eyes watered so hard she could barely see.
"Irvine…"
Her voice broke.
"I'm so scared."
His reply cracked like bone.
"So am I."
The Groom took another step forward.
Something behind him—deep in the bunker—shifted. A scraping. A dragging. A
low, ceremonial hum like dozens of voices chanting underwater.
Inara staggered backward.
"Irvine—I think the wedding is starting."
"Not without me," Irvine growled. "Not without us."
The Groom turned fully toward her now.
His veil unfurled in the air—
long, elegant, rotted lace forming the shape of a path behind him.
A bridal aisle.
Leading into the bunker.
Inara's breath shattered.
"Irvine… he's making an aisle."
"Inara. Run. Run NOW."
She tried.
God, she tried.
But her body moved only inches.
The Groom's fingers twitched—
and the phantom bride at the top of the hill slowly raised her veil.
Wind finally returned—
but only to push Inara toward the doorway.
Like the village itself wanted her inside.
"Inara—FIGHT HIM—RUN FOR ME—PLEASE—"
His voice cracked on the last word.
"I'm trying…"
Her steps were trembling, uneven, desperate.
She managed two more backward steps—
Then—
The Groom lowered his hand.
Her veil ripped toward him as if yanked by invisible claws.
Inara screamed—
spinning, stumbling, nearly falling to her knees.
The phantom bride whispered—
"…too slow…"
Something inside Inara snapped.
She grabbed the torn edges of her dress—
—and RAN.
For herself.
For him.
For every heartbeat that belonged only to the man she loved.
The Groom's shadow lunged after her—
—but she reached the treeline first.
The last thing she heard before the forest swallowed her was Irvine shouting:
"INARA—DON'T STOP—KEEP RUNNING—KEEP RUNNING—DON'T—STOP—"