His cracked phone flashed a single, persistent prompt through the frozen static: [“Exit Interview: Share your candid feedback on your recent service interaction. Your input helps us improve.”] The pavement slammed up to meet his boots in a sickening drop of displaced gravity. The scent of aged paper and potent spiritual energy vanished, replaced by the damp tang of urban exhaust and the metallic hint of rain. The stifling, vermilion gloom of Eternal Slumber Papercrafts dissolved. Huo Yunting found himself standing on a rain-slicked pavement, the chill of a late-autumn evening seeping into his bones through the thin fabric of his standard issue, high-visibility jacket. His e-bike, a battered but reliable workhorse, was parked precisely where he’d left it hours, or perhaps lifetimes, ago. The city hummed around him, a monotone drone of distant traffic and the persistent patter of water off corrugated awnings. Neon signs bled fuzzy colours onto the wet asphalt. His cracked smartphone, still clutched in his hand, seemed to throb with the aftershocks of its digital ordeal. He blinked, the streetlights burning halos into his vision. Had it all been a hallucination? A stress-induced break from his relentless pursuit of optimal efficiency? He raised the phone, its glass webbed with cracks like a fractured spiderweb. The Nether-Routing Dispatch Chat was no longer a frantic mess of error codes. Instead, a serene, almost smug notification dominated the small space. [“Errand Concluded. Rating: ★★★★★. Performance Points Awarded: 1,000,000,000. Congratulations on achieving Apex Tier Service Excellence.”] A massive payout. More Performance Points than he’d ever accrued in his entire miserable career. Enough to buy a small apartment in the outer districts, perhaps even a new e-bike that didn't rattle like a skeleton in a hailstorm. He could finally escape the cycle of precarious labor, the endless grind for scraps. A profound, weary exhaustion settled into his chest. But beneath it, something else stirred. A quiet emptiness where the frantic drive for survival used to be. The absence of scarlet silk and teasing smiles, of eyes that held the universe's oldest mischief. A pang, sharp and unexpected, twisted in his gut. He was free, yes. But the freedom felt… hollow. Like a perfectly optimized spreadsheet with a crucial column missing. He glanced back at the shadowed alleyway where the Eternal Slumber Papercrafts had stood. Now, only a grimy, padlocked storefront for a long-defunct dry cleaner met his gaze. The world had seamlessly stitched itself back together, leaving no trace of the supernatural havoc it had just contained. No trace, save for the echo of a laughter that still tickled his ear, and the phantom brush of soft lips. “Stupid,” he muttered to himself, kicking at a loose pebble. He was a rational man. A man of data and metrics. Sentimental attachment to a mischievous ghost was an illogical variable, an inefficiency. He swung a leg over his e-bike, the cold metal seat a stark reminder of his re-entry into the drab reality of his life. Time to head home. Time to process this absurdly high payout and re-evaluate his career trajectory. Just as his thumb hovered over the power button to ignite the e-bike’s motor, his smartphone, still clutched in his left hand, gave a violent shudder. The cracked glass pulsed, not with the familiar white glare of notifications, but with a deep, unsettling ruby glow. It bled across the entire space, an impossible, vibrant red that seemed to throb with an inner light. The screen was no longer broken; it was transformed, every hairline fracture glowing like a vein. Then, slowly, almost playfully, a new icon materialized amidst the red. It wasn't the stark black and white of the Dispatch Chat, nor the mundane logos of his other useless apps. This was an image rendered in exquisite detail: a delicate, flowing bridal veil, translucent and ethereal, swaying slightly as if caught on an unseen breeze. It was undeletable, unmovable, shimmering with an energy that vibrated against his palm. Yunting stared at it, a flicker of something he couldn't quite name – exasperation mixed with a strange, undeniable anticipation – crossing his face. He knew that veil. He knew the entity it represented. He had just logged five stars for her, and she had no intention of closing out the order. As if on cue, a familiar notification sound, not the passive-aggressive chirp of Dispatcher 404 but a softer, more melodic chime, echoed from the phone. A message pushed through the shimmering crimson, a final, definitive dispatch. [“Your new spouse has accepted your five-star rating! Next Scheduled Task: Immediate. Destination: Your Apartment. Estimated Time of Arrival: Whenever I feel like it. Don't forget to tidy up, darling. And prepare for a lifetime of delightful disarray. – Your Wife, Ruan Qingzi.”]

The Exit Interview