Dust rains over Irvine as he forces himself to breathe through the
darkness. The collapse has sealed the tunnel above him—no way back up,
at least not from here.
He tests his limbs.
Right shoulder throbbing.
Left leg scraped raw.
But not broken.
Above him, Inara's voice cracks through the walkie—
thin, static-filled, terrified.
"Irvine… are you—are you alive?"
"I'm here," he answers, forcing steadiness into his tone. "I'm okay.
Listen. Just keep talking. I need your voice."
A shaky inhale.
"I… I think he's still here."
Irvine freezes.
"Who?"
"The man I saw at the bunker. He had a tux… like an old war wedding.
Irvine, he was standing behind me in that photo. Smiling."
Irvine presses a hand to the tunnel wall, grounding himself.
"Stay where there's light. Don't move unless I tell you."
He switches on Grant's flashlight.
The beam stutters. Flickers.
Then stabilizes.
The tunnel stretches forever—narrow, stone-lined, colder than any place
abandoned for decades should be.
He starts walking.
Every step echoes.
Not ahead.
Not behind.
Around him.
As if the tunnel is reacting to his presence, adjusting its breath to
match his.
He refuses to look back.
Above ground, Inara clutches the walkie like a lifeline. Her wedding
dress is torn at the hem, dirt smudged across the satin. The collapsed
ground still shifts beneath her knees.
"Inara," Irvine says, "tell me what you see."
She turns slowly, scanning the silent village square.
"The camera is still printing," she whispers.
Irvine stops walking.
"What?"
A soft *ch-click* slices through the dead air.
Inara lifts the latest photograph with trembling fingers.
It's her.
Standing exactly where she stands now.
Except—
there's a hand on her waist.
A man's hand.
Pale. Long fingers. Wearing a vintage wedding band.
She drops the photo.
"Irvine, he's touching me in the picture. But there's no one here."
Irvine's voice sharpens.
"Inara. Listen to me carefully. Don't look at the photos anymore. Back
away from the square. Find higher ground. A roof, a balcony—anything."
The walkie hisses.
"I… I think I hear footsteps."
"Inara—"
"They're behind me."
Irvine breaks into a run, ignoring the pain in his leg. The tunnel wall
scrapes his shoulder as he barrels through the narrow path.
"Inara, MOVE!"
She stumbles to her feet, grabbing the skirt of her dress, running
through the village center. Her breath tears through her lungs.
The footsteps behind her intensify—
slow, heavy, deliberate.
Not chasing.
Escorting.
As if leading a bride to an altar.
Inara gasps into the walkie.
"He's following me! I don't— I don't see him, but I *feel* him."
"Keep talking," Irvine growls. "I'm coming."
A sudden metallic CLANG echoes ahead of Irvine.
He skids to a stop.
The tunnel forks into two paths:
Left—darker, colder.
Right—lit faintly by a flickering bulb.
Then—
A photograph slides out of the darkness at his feet.
He picks it up.
It's Inara.
Not the present Inara—
but Inara kneeling in the old church building at the edge of the village.
Her veil is torn.
Her bouquet is dead.
And something is standing behind her…
A tall silhouette.
No face.
Just the outline of a man in a groom's suit.
Irvine's heartbeat spikes.
"Inara—are you near the church?"
Her breath hitches.
"Yes… I ran toward it because it felt— I don't know—safer."
"It's not. Get out of there right now."
Inara turns toward the church entrance—
and freezes.
The door is open.
Slightly.
As if someone pushed it for her.
Slowly.
Patiently.
Inviting.
Irvine whispers into the walkie, voice trembling with fury.
"Inara. Do not go inside. I'm almost there. I swear I will get to you."
A tear falls down her cheek.
"Irvine, I'm scared."
"I know."
He runs harder, lungs burning.
"You're not dying in that place. I won't allow it."
Another photograph prints at her feet.
A bride's hand.
Her own.
Being held by a man's… guiding her into the church.
The Groom is close.
Too close.
The wind shifts.
The bells above the church *ring*—
but no one touched them.
Inara's voice breaks in the walkie.
"Irvine… he's opening the door for me."
The church door creaks wider.
Footsteps echo behind her.
Not rushing.
Welcoming.
Dust chokes Irvine's throat as he pulls himself out of the small crater,
spitting dirt and broken pebbles. The collapse swallowed half the
bunker's flooring, but somehow he landed inside an old subterranean
tunnel—one that shouldn't exist on any map.
Above him, the ground is sealed shut by slabs of stone and earth.
No light.
No way back.
Only Inara's trembling voice over the walkie keeps him from drowning in
the panic clawing at his ribs.
"Irvine… answer me. Please."
"I'm alive," he forces out, even though his lungs burn. "Talk to me.
Don't stop."
There's a brittle inhale, thin as cracked glass.
"He's still here."
Irvine stills.
Cold rides down his spine, settling at the base of his neck.
"Who?" he asks quietly.
"The man in that picture… the Groom. I didn't imagine him. He was
standing behind me. His reflection didn't blur like ours. He was solid."
Irvine clenches his jaw so hard the muscles ache.
"Inara, listen carefully. Stay close to any building with a vantage
point. Stay where the light hits. I need you visible."
"Irvine…" she whispers. "The air changed."
He hears it too.
The tunnel exhales.
A low, groaning shift of old stones awakening after decades of sleep.
The atmosphere grows colder—unnaturally so. A WWII bunker shouldn't feel
like a freezer.
He switches on Grant's borrowed flashlight.
The beam flickers violently, as if something is fighting it.
"I'm moving," Irvine says. "Count your breaths for me."
Inara nods instinctively even though he can't see her.
"One… two… three…"
Her voice quavers by the fourth count.
The empty village around her begins to hum—a faint resonance, like
distant artillery preparing to fire.
Inara swallows. "Irvine… I think the village is remembering."
"Don't say that," he mutters, moving deeper into the tunnel.
But she's right.
The cobblestones vibrate under her shoes.
The windows in the old houses tremble.
Dried wreaths hanging from shattered doorways rustle despite the dead
wind.
The place feels alive—
but alive in the wrong era.
Then—
*ch-click.*
The instant shutter sound makes both of them flinch.
Another photograph spits out from their camera, lying face-down in the dust.
Inara bends to pick it up, her fingers shaking.
"Irvine…"
"What is it? Describe it."
"It's me," she whispers.
"Standing right where I am.
Except… except…"
She hesitates.
"Inara."
"Irvine… someone is holding my waist. His hand is on me. But there's no
one here."
A wave of ice rolls through Irvine's stomach.
"Don't look at the photos anymore. They're not showing the present.
They're showing what the Groom wants."
Inara backs away, clutching her dress.
The village is too quiet.
Too expectant.
Like it's waiting for a ceremony to begin.
A sound breaks the silence—
footsteps.
Not running.
Not stumbling.
Walking.
Heavy.
Slow.
Purposeful.
"Inara, MOVE!" Irvine barks.
She sprints toward the nearest alley, the skirt of her dress snagging
on broken bricks. Her breath shreds out of her lungs.
The footsteps follow—
always the same distance away.
Never closer.
Never farther.
Not chasing.
Following.
Accompanying.
As if escorting her down an aisle.
"Irvine, he's behind me—he's behind me—"
"I'm coming. Keep talking. Don't look back."
"I— I think he wants me to."
"INARA!"
She clamps her eyes shut and keeps running, guided only by the crackling
walkie.
Meanwhile, Irvine reaches a fork in the tunnel.
LEFT: darker than shadow itself. Cold to the marrow.
RIGHT: faintly lit by a flickering bulb that shouldn't have electricity.
He takes one step right—
and hears something skitter behind him.
Then something slides across the floor… touching his boot.
A photograph.
He lifts it.
It's Inara, kneeling inside the church at the edge of the village.
Veil torn.
Bouquet dead.
A shadowed groom figure behind her, towering.
His blood runs cold.
"Inara. Are you heading toward the church?"
Her walkie cracks.
"I… yes. I ran here without thinking. It felt— I don't know—safer."
"It ISN'T. Back away. Don't enter. I'll reach you. Just don't—"
A deep creak echoes above ground.
Inara's head snaps up.
The church door…
is open.
Slightly.
As if pushed.
By a gloved hand.
With patience.
"Irvine…" she whispers. "Someone opened it for me."
A gust of cold wind blows out from the church, fluttering her dress.
The air smells like old parchment and rotting lilies.
A wedding fragrance.
Long dead.
"Inara, listen to me," Irvine growls, breaking into a sprint down the
right corridor. His leg screams from the impact, but he ignores it.
"Whatever happens, DO NOT STEP INSIDE."
Her breathing stutters.
"Irvine… the bells are ringing."
He freezes mid-run.
"No one touched them," Inara adds.
The bells toll again—slow, ceremonial, calling a bride to her altar.
Another photograph prints at her feet.
Her hand…
being held by a pale, long-fingered man…
guiding her into the church.
"Inara," Irvine whispers, voice trembling with rage and terror. "I am
coming for you. I don't care what this place wants."
The footsteps behind Inara stop.
Silence descends.
A tense, suffocating silence—
the kind a crowd holds right before a bride enters the chapel.
Then—
A shadow stretches across the church floor.
Tall.
Unmoving.
Waiting.
The Groom is near.
Too near.
"Irvine…" Inara chokes out.
"He's opening the door wider."
The old wooden door creaks—
wider—
wider—
until the church yawns open like a hungry mouth.
The bells toll again.
Waiting for the bride.