The bamboo-frame closet shuddered violently, a series of frantic, muffled impacts echoing through the mourning hall. Yunting approached with a detached sense of protocol. An unauthorized presence was an anomaly, a variable to be isolated and purged. His hand reached for the rough-hewn latch, fingers calloused from countless deliveries and the recent, unsettling grip on Qingzi’s hand. He pulled the latch. It groaned, stiff from disuse, and the door swung inward with a faint creak, revealing not a lurking spirit or a malevolent artifact, but a monstrous, thrashing form. Bound head to foot in coarse burial silks, a corpulent figure fought against its bindings. Its face, a bloated expanse of sallow flesh, was contorted in a silent scream. A gag, woven from tightly braided funeral ribbons, stretched its lips into a grotesque rictus, muffling the roar that clearly wanted to escape. Two small, furious eyes, the color of spoiled jade, glared out from beneath a severe, lacquered topknot, fixated on Yunting with an intensity that promised unimaginable retribution. This was no minor hazard. This was a *manager-level* anomaly. The sheer force behind its convulsions, despite the heavy cloth, suggested an immense, feral power. Yunting’s internal operational dashboard, usually a stoic display of optimized data, flickered. Threat assessment: Calamity-tier. Sub-objective: Neutralize, or at least contain, immediately. Then, a whisper, close to his ear, sent a strange prickle down his neck. “Oh, don’t mind him.” Qingzi had materialized beside him, her crimson silk sleeve brushing his arm. Her voice was light, dismissive, as if commenting on a particularly stubborn stain. She leaned in, her gaze drifting over the gagged prisoner with a serene, almost bored expression. “That’s just old Manager Zhu. He’s the actual host of this little shindig, you see.” Yunting blinked. His mental dashboard, which had just begun to recalculate a neutralization strategy for the raging captive, froze. Manager Zhu. The *actual* host. The implications crashed into his meticulously structured mind like a faulty system update. His five-star strategy, every calculated smile, every piece of deadpan praise, every sip of vile wine – it was all predicated on Qingzi being the designated Bride. If this furious, bound beast was the real deal… “Hijacked his own wedding, I did,” Qingzi continued, a faint, pleased smile playing on her lips. She tapped a delicate finger against her chin, observing the thrashing Manager Zhu. “He was being dreadfully dull. All about ancient covenants and soul-binding. No imagination at all. Far too much paperwork for my tastes. A proper wedding should have some… flair, don’t you agree?” Manager Zhu’s eyes, fixed on Qingzi, bulged with unspeakable fury. The closet itself groaned under the renewed assault of his thrashing. The silk bindings seemed to strain, tiny threads threatening to snap. Yunting felt it then. The first genuine spike of terror since he’d been dragged into the Nether-Routing Dispatch Chat. It wasn’t the cold dread of potential account deletion or the calculated risk assessment of a lethal delivery. This was the visceral, sickening lurch of the earth falling out from under him. His entire survival framework, built on exploiting system loopholes and optimizing workflow, was collapsing. He wasn’t just dealing with an unauthorized intruder; he was the primary participant in an unauthorized *wedding*. A fraudulent transaction on a cosmic scale. His internal metrics, for the first time, refused to display coherent data. Heart rate: accelerating. Pupil dilation: beyond acceptable parameters. Cognitive function: impaired. *Error. Error. Fraudulent Data Input. System Corruption Detected.* The invisible, overarching supervisor of the app – Dispatcher 404 – would register this. It wasn’t a matter of *if*, but *when*. And when it did, the consequences would be far more absolute than a simple Account Deletion. They’d make him a paper effigy, not just metaphorically, but literally. A five-star rating would be irrelevant if the entire order was fundamentally invalid. “But don’t worry, darling,” Qingzi purred, her fingers tracing a light, almost possessive path up his arm. “He’s quite comfortable. Besides, he needed a little nap. All that complaining about ‘sacred rites’ was giving me a headache.” She glanced at the phone still clutched in Yunting’s hand, then back at Manager Zhu, who was now emitting a low, guttural growl despite the gag. “The Dispatcher’s just being its usual nosy self. It likes to pretend it knows everything.” Just as Yunting’s mind raced to process this catastrophic revelation, to somehow re-optimize a strategy built on a foundation of pure deception, his cracked smartphone buzzed again. The vibration was more insistent this time, a high-frequency thrum that seemed to vibrate directly in his bones. [DISPATCHER 404: WARNING – PROLONGED LACK OF PERFORMANCE METRIC UPLOAD. GROOM ENGAGEMENT PROTOCOL REQUIRES VERIFICATION. IMMEDIATE UPLOAD OF ‘PROOF OF INTIMACY’ PHOTO REQUIRED TO CONFIRM LEGITIMATE BONDING WITH DESIGNATED BRIDE. FAILURE TO COMPLY WILL RESULT IN SUSPENSION OF PERFORMANCE POINTS AND POTENTIAL ACCOUNT DELETION.] Yunting stared at the message. Proof of Intimacy. With the *designated* Bride. His gaze darted from the furiously squirming, actual boss in the closet to the mischievous, immensely powerful fake bride beside him, her eyes now gleaming with renewed amusement. The clock was ticking, the app was demanding verification, and his very soul hung in the balance of a forced, fraudulent romantic gesture.

A Critical Glitch in the App