EPISODE 1

Lia woke up in silk.

The air around her was sweet—too sweet, like rotting roses. The scent clung to the walls, the sheets, her skin. Her eyes flicked open to a ceiling draped in white chiffon, a chandelier trembling above like a dying heartbeat.

For a moment, she didn’t know who she was.

Not her name.

Not why she was dressed in lace.

Not why her chest felt like it was ticking.

She sat up slowly. Her throat burned, the metallic taste of blood thick on her tongue. Her wedding dress—yes, a wedding dress—was too tight across her ribs, as if stitched to keep something inside. She reached for the bodice, and her fingers found a sharp edge beneath the fabric.

A device. Embedded in her chest.

It was pulsing.

Suddenly, a voice—neither male nor female—buzzed into her mind.

“Bride 108. Initialization complete. Time remaining: 11 hours, 59 minutes, 43 seconds.”

She gasped and looked around.

Nothing. No speakers. No shadows. Just white walls, mirrors, and flowers.

But when she turned her eyes to the tall antique mirror in the corner, the blood froze in her veins.

Her reflection blinked too late.

The girl in the glass looked like her—but not quite. There was something bruised about her. A red mark across her temple. Her veil torn. Her lips pale as marble. The reflection moved like a memory trapped under water.

Lia stepped back. Her heel caught on something soft. Petals.

The floor was covered in them—blood-red rose petals, wilting and wet.

She stumbled to her feet, and that’s when she saw the dark stain.

It spread like ink beneath the rug. Crimson. Fresh.

Not paint.

Not wine.

Blood.

The whisper returned.

“Bride 108. You must identify your killer before midnight. Failure to comply will result in reinitialization.”

Her head throbbed. “Reinitialize? What does that mean?”

 “You will die. Again.”

Again?

She staggered to the door and twisted the handle. It didn’t move. Locked.

“HELLO?” she screamed. “IS ANYONE THERE?!”

The chandelier flickered, casting shadows that danced across the chiffon-draped walls. Something was breathing in the walls. Whispering.

Tick.

Tock.

The countdown was in her bones.

Her memories were fragments. A name. A scream. A falling feeling. Cold water.

She pressed her palms to the mirror, desperate for anything familiar.

Then the glass shivered.

For just one second, the mirror didn’t show her reflection—it showed a hallway. Long, dim, with numbered doors. Her door said 108.

Another voice echoed softly in her head. This one wasn’t mechanical. It was deeper. Human. Male.

“You don’t belong here. You weren’t supposed to wake up yet.”

She spun around.

No one.

But she felt him. Like someone watching through the keyhole.

“I want answers,” she whispered.

“Then find your killer.”

The room transformed as she moved. Behind the dresser, she found a cracked photo frame. The image showed her in the same dress—smiling next to a faceless man. His features were blurred, as if someone had scratched them away.

She tried to open the frame. A message was etched inside.

 I loved you until the last second. But you never looked back.

– M.

Who was M?

Why did she feel like her ribs had been broken before?

The petals began to move. A breeze stirred the room, and the chandelier trembled again.

Suddenly, a click.

The door unlocked itself.

She hesitated, staring at the brass handle. Something told her she’d walked through that door before. Dozens of times. Hundreds.

But this time was different.

This time she remembered the ending.

The hallway was narrow and colorless. The walls pulsed faintly as if alive, breathing with her. Numbers lined the doors: 101… 102… 103…

Each door bore a rose. Some fresh. Some wilted. Some blackened by rot.

She passed a mirror mounted on the wall—and saw another bride walking behind her. Veil torn. Eyes gone.

When she turned around—nothing.

Her heart pounded. The clock in her chest sped up. Her hands trembled.

Then she heard it.

Footsteps.

Slow. Echoing. Male.

She ducked into a doorway, pressing herself flat.

The man who passed was tall, in a tailored black suit. His face was hidden by a mask—gold, carved like a skull.

He stopped.

Turned toward her.

She didn’t breathe.

“Bride 108,” he said. “Still awake, are you?”

His voice was velvet and static, like a record warping mid-song.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“The one who makes sure you stay dead.”

Before she could run, the hallway snapped around her like a trap. The walls shimmered. The ceiling collapsed into light.

And she was falling.

When she landed, it was soft. Grass. Moonlight.

She sat up, breathless.

She was in a garden. But the flowers were glass. The sky was black. The moon dripped gold like blood.

She stood, dazed.

Across the garden stood a man.

Not masked. Not blurred. Just… watching.

Dark coat. Pale eyes. And scars on his hands like he’d pulled too many knives from the wrong side.

“You’re her,” he said.

“Who are you?” Lia asked again, her voice trembling.

He looked at the moon, then back at her. “I was Bride 107’s murderer.”

Her blood turned to ice.

“She never solved it,” he said. “She almost did.”

Lia stepped back. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you might be the first one who can stop the cycle.”

She swallowed. “What cycle?”

He didn’t answer. He walked away.

But as he passed her, he whispered something low, something that settled in her bones:

 “Bride 108… you're not like the others. You remember the pain.”

She turned to ask what that meant.

But he was gone.

Only a single rose remained where he stood—white, bleeding at the tips.

Lia woke up in silk.

The room smelled like roses soaked in something rotten.

The chandelier flickered above her.

She screamed.