Irvine didn't realize he'd stopped walking.
But Inara did.
She felt it first—the sudden absence of heat from his hand, the way his
fingers loosened around hers as though his mind drifted far from his own body.
"Irvine…?" she whispered.
His eyes were open.
But they weren't looking at her.
They weren't looking at anything.
His pupils had dilated until no color remained, swallowing the hazel
entirely, reflecting torchlight like the eyes of something feral hiding
deep inside a skull.
A low hum vibrated through the hall.
Metal quivered.
Pipes trembled.
Dust rose as if pulled upward by static.
Inara stepped in front of him carefully.
"Irvine. Look at me."
He didn't blink.
His lips parted slightly, breath shallow and uneven, like he was listening
to something she couldn't hear.
Then—
He spoke.
But she instantly knew it wasn't his voice.
Not fully.
It was Irvine's tone layered beneath something deeper, older, echoing
as if spoken through a cathedral of bones.
"He is… waking."
Inara's throat tightened.
"Who? Irvine, talk to me—"
His neck twitched sharply, like an invisible hook yanked at his spine.
"The vows… unfinished…"
His head tilted an inch too far.
"The bride… wandering… the ceremony… delayed."
Inara backed away one step.
Then another.
She had seen The Groom mimic Irvine.
But she had never imagined The Groom could speak *through* him.
"Irvine, stop. Fight it. Listen to my voice."
But his eyes didn't focus.
He simply turned toward her—mechanically, not human—and lifted a hand
as if reaching to brush hair from her cheek.
Something Irvine always did when she was scared.
But this wasn't gentle.
His fingers hovered too close to her skin.
Too still.
"Inara…"
The voice was wrong. Split.
"Bride…"
Her breath caught.
"No. Don't you dare call me that."
His hand froze mid-air.
For a moment, Irvine seemed to return, pupils tightening, jaw clenching
like he was struggling to drag himself back into control.
"Inara…" he rasped, voice shaking violently.
"Run. Please just—"
A violent shudder tore through his body.
His back arched.
His fingers clawed at his own head.
A strangled moan ripped from his throat as if something inside him was
tearing at his consciousness like threads.
Then he collapsed to one knee.
Inara dropped beside him instantly.
She grabbed his face between her palms.
"Irvine, stay with me. Look at me."
His eyes fluttered—
then snapped open again.
Dark.
Empty.
A voice slipped from his mouth like smoke:
"You cannot keep him…"
Her pulse slammed against her ribs.
"He belongs to me… just as you do."
"Inara—run!" Irvine choked out from somewhere *beneath* the Groom's voice.
He was still in there.
Fighting.
Bleeding.
Holding on by a thread.
"No," she said, gripping his shoulders.
"I'm not leaving you. Not again."
His fingers tightened around her wrist—too strong, too cold.
A whisper curled along the walls, through the pipes, through the dust,
like a wind sliding under a locked door:
"Surrender the bride…
and he may live."
Inara's breath stuttered.
Cold sweat trickled down her spine.
"I'll never—" she began.
But then Irvine jerked violently, collapsing against the wall, gasping
as if drowning in air that didn't belong to him.
His pulse hammered beneath her fingertips—
but every beat was slowing.
The Groom was siphoning him.
Stealing him.
Using him.
Her lungs burned.
Her chest seized with terror she couldn't contain.
"Irvine—stop listening to him. Fight him. I'm right here."
His hand clawed toward her again.
But this time, it wasn't reaching for her—
It was reaching past her.
Toward her shadow.
The same way The Groom had reached before.
Inara slapped his hand away instinctively.
He hissed—
the sound too sharp, too inhuman.
"Inara…"
Irvine's real voice surfaced for a heartbeat.
"Don't… let him… use me…"
Then his head snapped toward the corridor to their left.
Footsteps echoed.
Slow.
Methodical.
Ceremonial.
The Groom was approaching.
And Irvine heard him first.
He staggered upright, swaying, a puppet forced into vertical alignment.
"Inara…" he whispered.
"If he gets close… he'll take me fully."
She shook her head fiercely.
"I won't let that happen."
"You might not have a choice."
His eyes—his real eyes—locked onto hers.
Terrified.
Apologetic.
In love.
"I can't stop walking toward him."
She froze.
"What?"
"I—Inara, I'm being pulled. Like a groom walking down an aisle."
Her breath shattered.
Irvine took one step forward.
Then another.
And another.
As if invisible vows were dragging him down the corridor.
Inara grabbed his arm with both hands, heels digging into the floor.
"Irvine, no! Stay with me!"
He clenched his teeth so hard blood dripped from the corner of his mouth.
"I'm—trying—"
The hall flickered.
Lights shuddered.
A silhouette appeared at the far end of the corridor.
Tall.
Elegant.
Dripping with blackened lace.
The Groom.
His veil fluttered toward them as though drawn by Inara's pulse.
Irvine convulsed.
His voice broke into a scream:
"INARA—RUN—THE GROOM IS INSIDE ME—RUN—RUN—!"
But she didn't move.
She held him tighter.
She pressed her forehead to his.
"I'm not leaving you," she whispered fiercely.
"Not in this lifetime. Not in any."
The Groom's shadow stretched toward them—
reaching.
Irvine gasped—
"Inara—he's reaching through me—he's using my shadow—go—GO—!"
She turned.
And froze.
Her own shadow rose behind her.
Slow.
Elegant.
Wearing a wedding veil.
Cliffhanger:
Two shadows reached for her—
one shaped like Irvine's trembling hand,
one shaped like The Groom's outstretched arm—
and Inara had one breath to decide
**which one she would touch.**
The torchlight dimmed again.
Not flickered.
Dimmed—like something taller than Irvine, taller than any soldier, taller
than the ceiling itself was passing through the walls, sucking the warmth
from the air with every step.
Inara felt the temperature drop so sharply her breath fogged.
And Irvine—
Irvine *exhaled* fog too.
Oh no.
Her body froze.
"Irvine… that's not normal."
But he didn't answer.
He was still on one knee, head bowed.
Then slowly—painfully—his head lifted, neck trembling, like he was fighting
the motion but losing.
His eyes weren't just dark.
They were reflecting something behind her.
Something she couldn't see.
"Inara…"
His voice fractured.
"He's standing right behind you."
Her heart slammed against her ribs so hard she tasted iron.
She didn't turn.
She didn't dare.
Instead, she leaned closer to Irvine, pressing her forehead to his, blocking
the line of sight, forcing him to see *her* and no one else.
"Irvine. Look. At. Me."
For one second—one fragile, trembling second—his pupils constricted, the
hazel fighting its way back, like his soul was forcing itself through a
closing door.
"Inara…"
He whispered her name with the voice she knew.
Loved.
Trusted.
Then—
Fingers—cold, thin, inhuman—brushed the back of her veil.
She flinched so violently she almost screamed.
But the fingers weren't physical.
They were shadow.
Her veil floated upward in a gentle lift, as if someone stood behind her,
holding the fabric delicately between thumb and forefinger.
"Inara…"
Irvine rasped.
"He's… choosing you… again…"
Her stomach twisted.
She barely managed to choke out,
"I didn't agree to anything."
A chuckle crawled out of Irvine's mouth.
But it wasn't Irvine's laugh.
Not even close.
It was deeper.
Layered.
Ancient.
Too pleased.
Too patient.
"Vows… cannot be refused…"
Inara shoved herself backward, severing the ghostly fingers' touch.
Her veil dropped lifelessly, brushing the stone floor with a whisper.
She grabbed Irvine's face again, forcing him to see her.
"Fight him! Fight him, Irvine!"
His jaw clenched.
His pupils shrank.
He sucked in a painful, rattling breath.
"You… you have to… move…"
His voice strained like he was lifting a building with his bare hands.
"He's—he's using my eyes—my hands—Inara, I'm not— *I'm not me.*"
Her voice cracked.
"Then let me help you!"
"You can't…"
His breath hitched in pure terror.
"He wants you to touch me. If you do—he'll use the contact to take you too."
The corridor's end darkened again.
Footsteps echoed.
Slow.
Measured.
The Groom wasn't walking.
He was arriving.
Like a ceremony processional.
Cold wind slid down the hallway, brushing Inara's ankles, lifting dust,
carrying a faint scent—old flowers soaked in rot. A funeral bouquet left in
the rain for decades.
Inara grabbed Irvine's hands instead—close, but not touching skin-to-skin—
just grasping his sleeves, grounding him.
"Stay with me. Keep your eyes on me. Listen to my voice."
Irvine trembled.
Then—
He screamed.
It wasn't anger.
Not pain.
It was terror.
"HE'S INSIDE ME—INARA HE'S—HE'S PUSHING MY MIND OUT—"
She pressed her forehead against his desperately.
"I'm not leaving you! Do you hear me? I'm *not* leaving you!"
Her tears hit his cheek.
The moment they did—
The shadow behind her recoiled.
Just slightly.
Inara gasped.
"He hates emotion…"
The Bride had said that.
Those memories weren't useless.
She leaned closer, voice steady though her body shook.
"Irvine. Look at me. I love you."
His breath caught—
and for a split second the darkness recoiled again.
A sharp metallic *CLANG* snapped her attention sideways.
The lamps at the far end of the corridor bent inward, as if sucked toward a
black hole in the shape of a groom's silhouette.
They weren't flickering now.
They were bowing.
The Groom's presence flooded the hall.
Irvine rose to his feet with a jerk—
not lifting himself.
Lifted.
His limbs twitched like a marionette pulled by invisible wires.
His back arched.
His head tilted to the side—
a perfect, ceremonial angle.
He took a step forward.
Then another.
Toward the Groom.
"No!" Inara cried, grabbing his arm.
He dragged her with him.
"Inara—please—don't hold me—if you touch me—he'll take you with me—GO—RUN—"
She didn't let go.
Not even when his knees buckled.
Not even when his hand—no longer Irvine's—reached for her throat.
"Inara…"
His real voice surfaced again.
A broken whimper.
"So… sorry…"
The Groom whispered through his mouth:
"Bride… come home."
Her skin crawled violently.
"I'm not your bride," she whispered.
The Groom laughed in Irvine's mouth.
"You will be… when he is gone."
A shadow rose at her feet—her own—
and shifted into the silhouette of a woman in a ruined wedding gown.
The Bride's warning echoed:
"Do not look at the face.
Look at the shadow."
Inara forced her eyes downward.
Two shadows stretched along the cracked floor:
• One was Irvine's body—jerking, trembling, possessed.
• The other stood tall, calm, elegant—The Groom's.
Those shadows were reaching.
Right now.
Toward her.
Her pulse pounded like a drumline.
Irvine's voice tore out of him again, desperate and shaking:
"INARA RUN—RUN—RUN—HE'S—HE'S ALMOST THROUGH—PLEASE—"
But she stayed.
She knelt.
She pressed her forehead to his hands without touching skin.
"Irvine. Stop listening to him.
Listen to *me.*"
For one blinding second—
His shadow flickered.
Changed shape.
Bowed inward like two hands clenching into fists.
Then—
The Groom's shadow lunged.
And Inara only had one heartbeat
to choose who she would save.