The White Rabbit’s paw hovers over the pocket watch. He doesn’t look at it. He doesn’t need to. He knows what time it is—always late, never enough. But the tick has stopped. He freezes mid-stride, one foot in the air, ears flat against his back. The tunnel behind him is dark, but he feels it: a weight, a gaze, a presence that wasn’t there a moment ago. Slowly, he turns. His whiskers twitch. The corridor is empty. Just the echo of his own frantic breathing, the distant drip of water somewhere deeper in the earth. “Oh dear,” he whispers. “Oh dear, oh dear.” He checks the watch again. The hands haven’t moved. But the second hand is now pointing straight at him. And from the darkness, a voice he doesn’t recognize—soft, amused, familiar in a way that chills his fur—says: “Late again, White Rabbit?” He spins. Nothing. Only the grin, hanging in the shadows, impossibly wide, waiting. He runs. Not toward the light. Away from it. But the grin follows.