The ink on the photograph hadn't even dried.
It slid down the surface like black tears, dripping onto the stone floor
of the chamber.
Inara stared at it, breathless—
Irvine collapsed, blood pooling beneath him.
A perfect preview of the altar's intention.
"No…" she whispered.
Her fingers trembled violently.
"No—no—NO!"
The walkie crackled.
"Inara…? What did you see…?"
His voice.
Weak.
Breaking.
She grabbed the device.
"Irvine, don't move. I'm coming—just keep talking to me. Please—"
A sound cut her off.
A sharp, wet *click*.
Like a Polaroid taking a photo.
Slowly… deliberately…
a fresh photograph slid out from the dark slit in the stone wall.
Inara's heart stopped.
"Not another one… please—"
She forced herself to look.
Her stomach twisted.
It was the **makeup artist**, Leya.
Or what was left of her.
Her body had been posed on the ground—exactly like Inara had collapsed earlier while crying. Same angle. Same expression. Same hand clutching the dirt.
But her eyes—
Her eyes had been **sewn open**, staring directly into the camera.
Staring at Inara.
As if begging her to run.
Or warning her she was next.
Inara's scream tore through the chamber.
She pressed the photo against her chest, sobbing.
"Irvine, the Groom killed Leya. He—he posed her like—like *me*. Her eyes—"
Silence from the walkie.
Then a shallow inhale.
"Inara… don't look. Listen to me instead."
"I can't—god—I can't—"
"Yes, you can," he breathed.
And despite his pain, his voice steadied.
"You're stronger than this place. Don't let him break you."
But she already felt herself splintering.
The Groom wasn't just hunting them—
he was *learning* them.
Mimicking them.
Studying Inara like a lover studying a portrait he planned to steal.
She wiped her tears.
Forcefully.
"Okay," she whispered. "Talk to me. Let me hear you breathe."
He inhaled shakily.
Exhaled slower.
Like he was trying to hide how shallow it had become.
"I'm… I'm still here."
She leaned against the stone doorway, gripping the walkie like a lifeline.
"Where are you now? What can you see?"
"Hallway… long… torches on both sides. Floor's uneven. Smells like… ashes."
A cough.
Wet.
Ugly.
Her heart clenched.
"Irvine, listen to me. You need to find something to press against your wound—"
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine!"
"Inara—focus."
A thread of anger crept into his tone—
not at her,
but at the situation.
At the Groom.
At fate.
"Leya's death means he's accelerating the ritual. The Groom is pushing us to the altar faster."
Inara shut her eyes.
The pain in her lungs felt physical.
"Irvine… are you getting closer to me or farther?"
A long pause.
"…I don't know."
The walkie hissed.
Faded.
Then a new sound filtered in.
Not from Irvine.
From behind Inara.
A soft, dragging noise.
Fabric against stone.
She froze.
Slowly, she turned.
A figure stood at the far end of the corridor—
tall, stiff, head tilted.
Her heart leapt—
But then she saw it.
The way its limbs bent wrong.
The way its joints cracked when it moved.
The way its mouth hung open too wide, as if dislocated.
The Groom's soldier-creature.
And in its hand—
A lock of hair.
Brown.
Curled with heat-styling.
Leya's hair.
Inara's blood ran cold.
"Irvine," she whispered, backing up. "One of them is here."
"How many?"
"One."
"Then you can run."
Another dragging step echoed.
"No," Inara breathed. "It's blocking the only exit."
The creature took another slow step toward her, head jerking left then right like a broken puppet taking measure of its prey.
She backed up farther—
until her heel hit the fresh photograph of Leya.
She nearly gagged.
This snapped something in her.
She wasn't going to die curled up in a photograph like Leya.
She wasn't going to let the Groom rewrite her ending.
She lifted her chin.
"Irvine."
"Yes…?"
"I'm not running."
Silence.
Then—
"…what are you doing?"
Inara reached down, fingers trembling, and grabbed a jagged piece of stone from the floor.
"I'm fighting."
This time, there was no hesitation in his breath.
Only raw pride.
"Inara… don't you dare die on me."
"Then keep talking."
She tightened her grip.
"Because I'm doing this for you."
The creature lunged.
Inara spun sideways, just barely dodging its clawed hand. It slammed into the wall, stone cracking beneath its weight.
She stumbled but kept her footing.
Its head snapped toward her with a sickening twist.
"Irvine—"
"I'm here," he said, voice shaking with adrenaline.
"Don't let it corner you. Keep distance—use its weight against it—remember the self-defense class—"
"I dropped out of that class!"
"I know! But you watched the YouTube tutorials!"
"Oh my god, Irvine—NOT NOW—"
The creature lunged again.
Inara ducked—
and the claws sliced through the air above her head, ripping through her veil and tearing off a long strip of fabric.
She gasped.
That had been her *wedding veil.*
Irvine's voice sharpened instantly.
"Inara. That's him. He's claiming you. Do *not* let that happen again."
She darted backward.
The creature advanced faster.
It wanted her veil.
Her dress.
Her shape.
Her image.
It wanted to turn her into another bride-image for the altar.
Her stomach twisted with horror.
She pressed her back against the wall, breathing hard.
"Irvine—I can't outrun it—"
"Yes, you can. Listen to me—when it gets close, strike the throat—it's the weakest point in anything humanoid—"
"How do *you* know that?!"
A painful chuckle.
"Because I married you, not because I'm smart."
She would've laughed if she weren't about to die.
The creature lunged again, faster now—
Inara felt her pulse explode as she swung the stone shard.
It connected.
Hard.
The shard buried deep into the creature's throat.
A wet crunch.
Black blood sprayed across her wrists and the front of her dress.
The soldier-creature staggered.
Gurgling.
Clawing at its own neck.
Then it collapsed face-first onto the stone floor, twitching until the last movement drained from its limbs.
Inara stood over it, panting, drenched in cold sweat and fear.
The walkie crackled.
"…Inara?"
She swallowed hard.
"I—I killed it."
A long silence.
Then Irvine exhaled—
A sound of pure relief.
"Good… good girl… god, Inara—don't stop. Keep moving. You can't stay there."
"I know."
She stepped over the corpse.
"But Irvine… the Groom—he's getting closer. I can *feel* him."
"So can I."
His voice wavered.
Not from fear.
From pain.
"Inara… you need to hurry. I'm losing blood fast."
Her throat tightened.
"What do you see now? What's around you?"
"Stairs," he whispered.
"Going up."
Her heartbeat surged.
"I see stairs too."
"Then we're close," he breathed.
"Inara—we're so damn close."
She pressed the walkie to her lips.
"Don't die. I swear to god, Irvine, if you die on me—"
"Inara," he whispered, soft and fragile.
"I'm holding on because of you."
Her hand trembled.
"I'm coming."
She took one shaky breath.
Then began climbing.
And behind her, the dead creature's body twisted once—
as if listening.
As if sending a message.
As if telling the Groom where his bride had gone.
The soldier-creature's body didn't stay still.
Even after its final twitch, even after the last gurgle of corrupted air
escaped its ruined throat, something inside it refused to die.
Inara stepped back, chest heaving, gripping the stone shard so tightly
her fingers were numb.
The creature's spine jerked once—
a faint, unnatural *stretch,*
like someone was pulling invisible strings buried inside its bones.
"Inara," Irvine's voice crackled, sensing something in her silence,
"what's happening? Talk to me."
She swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the body.
"It… it moved."
"How much?"
"…enough to know it wasn't reflex."
The creature's arm snapped backward, joints bending the wrong way.
Its fingers clawed into the floor, not to rise—
but to point.
At her.
Black fluid dripped from under its nails.
She stumbled backward, bile rising in her throat.
"Irvine… it's—it's pointing at me."
"Get away from it."
"I'm trying—"
But the corpse didn't stop.
Its head twisted slowly, despite its crushed throat, turning until the
empty eye sockets faced her.
Mud and dried blood flaked from its face, revealing old skin beneath:
Skin painted with ceremonial symbols.
The Groom's mark.
A brand.
Irvine inhaled sharply. "He's letting you know he saw the kill."
Inara froze.
"You mean he's—watching?"
"No."
Irvine's voice lowered, serious.
"Not watching."
The wall behind her vibrated with a faint pulse—
a heartbeat not belonging to anything alive.
"He's claiming."
Her legs nearly buckled.
"No—no—NO—I'm not HIS—"
"I know," Irvine said quickly.
"You're mine."
The words hit her like a physical shock.
For a moment, everything stopped.
"Irvine…"
"I don't care what he thinks he's owed.
I don't care what this altar wants.
Inara—listen to me—
you are MINE.
And I will crawl through every hell in this place before I let him take you."
Her breath broke into a sob—
half terror, half fierce love.
But before she could answer—
The creature's body spasmed violently.
Its chest caved inward with a sickening crunch.
Ribs snapped.
Spine coiled.
And then—
A long strip of black cloth slid out from the torn throat.
A veil.
Not Inara's.
A veil belonging to another bride—
long dead, long taken.
It slithered across the floor, moving like a living shadow, reaching
toward her torn dress as if trying to attach itself.
Inara froze.
"Irvine—something is coming out of it. A veil. It's—it's moving."
His voice tightened in panic.
"DO. NOT. TOUCH. IT."
The veil crept closer.
Inara stepped back until her spine hit the stone wall.
"Irvine—please, what do I do—"
"Say it," Irvine whispered, breath strained.
"Say the vow."
"What vow?"
"The one you told me the night you said yes."
He coughed violently, pain tearing through the walkie.
"Say it, Inara—NOW."
Her heart pounded.
Her voice trembled.
"I choose you," she whispered.
The veil stopped.
"I choose you," she repeated, louder, stronger.
"No altar. No ghost. No groom. Only you."
The veil recoiled—
as if burned.
It dragged itself back into the corpse's throat like smoke being pulled
in reverse, vanishing completely.
The body collapsed for the final time.
Irvine exhaled a shaky breath of relief.
"That vow… he can't touch that. He can mimic faces, shadows, even
memories—but he can't mimic our vow."
Inara slid down the wall, shaking violently.
"Irvine… you're bleeding badly, aren't you?"
A pause.
Too long.
Then:
"…yeah."
Her breath hitched.
"Don't close your eyes."
"I'm trying," he whispered, voice slurring.
"But it's getting cold, Inara."
"No—NO—stay awake! Talk to me!"
"You killed one of his soldiers."
A weak laugh.
"You're terrifying. God, Inara… you're the bravest person I've ever—"
A heavy clang echoed through Irvine's end of the tunnel.
Followed by a groan of pain.
"Irvine? IRVINE?!"
No answer.
Just dragging.
Something heavy scraping stone.
Something approaching him.
Tears flooded her eyes.
"No—no, don't take him—DON'T YOU TAKE HIM!"
She grabbed the walkie with both hands.
"Irvine, if you can hear me, listen—I'm almost there. Just… please…
please stay alive. I'm begging you. Stay alive until I get to you."
A faint whisper came back.
Not from Irvine.
From the Groom.
"He will kneel…
when you reach the altar."
Inara screamed into the darkness.
And sprinted up the stone staircase.