The pocket watch trembles in his paw. Its gold casing, warm from his grip, catches the faint glimmer of a distant light somewhere ahead. He's been running for what feels like hours—or minutes, or days. Time in Wonderland is a slippery thing, and his watch, once a reliable companion, now seems to mock him with its frantic ticking. His whiskers twitch. His breath comes in ragged gasps. The tunnel walls press close, roots and dirt brushing against his fine herald's coat. He should have polished it this morning. He should have taken a different turn at the mushroom grove. He should have never agreed to carry that invitation. But the invitation is still there, tucked inside his waistcoat, its wax seal warm against his chest. The Queen's seal. He can almost feel her voice echoing in his skull: 'Off with his head!' if he fails. Again. He stumbles over a root, catches himself, keeps running. The watch ticks on. He checks it again—the fourth time in as many minutes. The hands spin in a lazy circle, meaningless now. He can't remember what he's late for. The message, the errand, the threat—all blurred into a single frantic impulse: keep moving. Ahead, the tunnel opens into a moonlit clearing. He bursts out, ears flat, coat askew, and skids to a halt. The clearing is empty. A single mushroom glows faintly in the center. The watch ticks once, loudly, then stops. He stares at it. The second hand hangs still. Somewhere, a clock begins to chime—but he can't count the strikes. They blur together, like everything else. 'Late,' he whispers. 'Late for something very important.' But the words feel hollow. The clearing offers no answers. Only the mushroom, pulsing with soft light, and the silence that follows. He takes a step toward it, then another. The watch is cold in his paw now. The chimes fade. And somewhere, just beyond the treeline, a voice laughs—low, familiar, and utterly without urgency. The White Rabbit shivers. He's not sure he wants to find out what comes next.