It was 2:06 AM in Manhattan, and the city hadn’t bothered to sleep. Neon signs flickered in rhythmic pulses against the wet concrete, casting pink and amber glows across alley walls and rusted fire escapes. The streets were quiet, but not dead — the kind of silence that hummed monotonously.

The wedding was in less than ten hours. No one was ready — not the dress, not the vows, not the people. Especially not the people.

Inside, the hotel venue pulses with hushed chaos. It’s one of those boutique places with velvet wallpaper and low lighting, pretending not to be overpriced. On the 12th floor, the bridal suite smells like hairspray and the remnants of champagne no one finished. The hallway outside is lined with cracked-open doors: a groomsman’s tie hanging off the handle, the echo of music from a forgotten speaker, a bridesmaid barefoot in the hallway whisper-yelling into her phone. The wedding's only hours away, but the building feels like it’s holding its breath. And God, where's that wedding dress?!