The rust-eaten gates shrieked a protest as He Jinxi nudged them open, iron scraping against humid Beijing grit. A blood-red envelope, stiff with ancient rice paper and sealed with a black wax peony, dragged heavy in his pouch. Another `NetherDash` special, no doubt. The app had been pitching these bizarre, late-night dispatch jobs his way for weeks, each run straying further off the map. He adjusted his helmet, the cheap plastic digging into his chin, and stepped into the auditorium's shadow. “Rui, you sure about this address?” Jinxi mumbled into his earpiece, the comms link crackling faintly. “Place looks less like an opera house and more like a condemned wreck where ghosts hold talent shows.” Dong Rui’s voice, a calm counterpoint to the city’s distant hum, clicked in. “Positive, Jinxi. Client left very specific instructions: ‘Deliver at the stroke of midnight. To the stage door, no exceptions.’” A beat of static. “Just… try not to get ghost-slimed again. You still owe me for the dry cleaning.” Jinxi snorted, navigating a crumbling path overgrown with thorny vines that seemed to clutch at his ankles. The opera house's façade was rotten through: cracked vermillion paint peeling like sunburnt skin, intricate eaves crumbling, and a grand circular window shattered into a jagged maw. Stale dust and crushed lilies hung in the stagnant air. His phone screen, usually a beacon of GPS routes and customer ratings, flickered. The digital clock rolled over, stark white against the dark background: `00:00`. The moment the last digit settled, a guttural groan echoed from behind him. The massive, iron-bound gates, which he’d left ajar, slammed shut with a clang that vibrated through the flagstones into his boot soles. Dust, thick and smelling of forgotten ages, puffed into the air. Jinxi spun around, fingers finding the worn `Void-Piercer` blade strapped to his thigh. “Alright, very dramatic,” he called out into the quiet. “Show’s over, I’m just here to hand over the parcel.” His phone chimed, a cold, crystalline ring. The screen flared to life with a fresh notification. [Welcome, Groom.] Jinxi blinked. “Groom? What in the—” Another chime, sharper this time. The screen scrolled, replacing the previous message with a chilling directive. [Rule 1: Do not look the paper-mâché musicians in the eye.] Before he could swear, a low, mournful note from a guzheng reverberated from deep within the hall. The wail of an erhu joined in, then the shrill cry of a dizi flute and the heavy thump of funeral drums. The sound rose directly from the floorboards. The interior, glimpsed through a grimy window, shifted. Blood-red silk drapes billowed from unseen sources, cascading over the worn velvet seats. Golden lanterns, previously dark, flickered to life, casting long, dancing shadows. And on the stage, where a dusty proscenium arch once stood, now sat a grotesque ensemble: life-sized paper-mâché figures, their faces painted with static, unsettling smiles, their stiff paper hands posed over equally paper instruments. They appeared to be playing, their heads bobbing in unison, though no discernible movement could be seen from this distance. “Rui, you seeing this?” Jinxi hissed, his voice tight. “My drop-off just turned into a haunted wedding planning expo. And I’m apparently the main attraction.” “The app’s pushing a new instance protocol,” Dong Rui replied, his voice strained. “`Ghost-Marriage Scenario: Liyuan Grand Theatre`. Jinxi, you need to follow the rules, no matter how ridiculous. The app’s purge mechanisms are lethal.” A pale, translucent form detached itself from the highest rafters of the hall's dome. It drifted downwards, a spectral descent, until it hovered just above the stage. Clad in a flowing, crimson-and-white bridal gown that seemed to absorb the dim light, she was a vision of ethereal beauty and unsettling power. Her hair, long and ink-black, framed a face of pale jade, her lips a startling splash of vermillion. She held a delicate paper fan, painted with weeping willows, and her eyes, like twin pools of moonlight, fixed directly on Jinxi. Pei Liuli, the Boss of this instance, watched the mortal man below with an amused tilt of her head. He Jinxi, the new ‘Groom’, didn’t cower or scream, as countless others had. Instead, he flashed a grin, cocky and utterly inappropriate for a man facing his supernatural end. His scuffed nylon jacket looked absurd beside her trailing crimson train. “Alright, beautiful,” Jinxi called out into the red-draped hall. He pushed his helmet back, revealing a mop of slightly sweat-damp black hair. “Fancy giving me five stars? Because that was easily the most unforgettable entrance of my life.” He paused, then added, with a wink, “Might even be worth a kiss, if you’re offering.” Liuli’s ghostly lips curved into a slow, knowing smirk. This one was different. Audacious. A thrilling anomaly in the endless parade of terrified, soul-drained mortals. His eyes, though, were still fixed on her, and not the grotesque musicians. Good. For now. But then, a flicker of movement caught her attention. One by one, the painted, hollow eyes of the paper-mâché musicians on the stage began to turn, slowly, deliberately, away from their instruments, away from her, and directly towards He Jinxi.

The Midnight Fare