The Jilted Lover's scream rattled the bunker walls, sending dust and grit cascading from the ceiling. The mimic guards pressed themselves against the stone, faces twisted with borrowed fear. Marron clutched the bone shard so tightly it burned into her palm, refusing to flinch.
"Enough," the Lieutenant commanded. His voice cut through the banshee's wail, sharp and precise as a blade. "Speak."
The Jilted Lover's form flickered, half-bride, half-corpse. Her veil fluttered like torn paper in a storm. She leveled her hollow gaze at the Lieutenant.
"That should have been mine," she hissed, pointing a skeletal finger at the empty plate on his desk. "The dish, the praise, your attention. I was with you long before this… plain little cook."
The mimics lining the room shifted uneasily. Marron's jaw clenched, but she stayed silent. This wasn't her fight—not yet.
