...The gold-threaded dress shimmered under the harsh Southern sun, a cruel irony for a girl who felt her soul withering.
Sophia walked the length of the platform, the heavy scent of marigolds cloying in the humid air.
Every step felt like a drumbeat in a death march.
The altar was a masterpiece of red and black silk, flanked by the twins who stood like two predatory bookends.
To their side, the Priest of the Church of the Neuralink waited, his chest bearing a crimson rune that have a low glow against daylight.
Don Alejandro stood behind them, his white suit blindingly bright, his chest puffed out like a peacock who had finally cornered the world.
As Sophia approached, her eyes stayed fixed on the red ribbon tucked into her sleeve.
She didn't hate Soren. In her heart, a quiet, flickering warmth remained.
He had given her a journey of hope, even if it had ended here.
