The world fractured. Ding Shaobai felt the ground vanish, replaced by an instant of pure, digital white. He didn't fall; he simply ceased to be there, then was somewhere else entirely. The sterile, metallic tang of his own apartment air filled his lungs, a stark contrast to the dust and decay that had defined his last moments. He lay sprawled on his threadbare rug, his phone clutched in a white-knuckled grip. It was still on, but the *Absolution* app icon, once an angry, pulsating eye, was gone. Erased. His contact list, his calendar, mundane apps – all restored to their rightful places. The nightmare was over. He pushed himself up, a phantom ache in his bones from the collapsing boiler room. The silence of his apartment was deafening after the digital screams of the dissolving pocket dimension. Shaobai walked to his small kitchen, poured a glass of water, and stared at his reflection in the dark window. His face was gaunt, the dark hollows under his cheekbones carved sharp against the glass. He’d survived. He, the veteran player who adhered to every rule, who meticulously studied every anomaly, had survived because a lazy street con artist had found a shortcut through damnation by romancing a ghost. “Unbelievable,” Shaobai muttered, the word tasting like ash. His rigid worldview, built on years of surviving terrifying, inescapable logic, was shattered. Feixing had not just bent the rules; he had broken the entire game engine. The sheer audacity of it, the reckless disregard for his own life, all to avoid effort. It was insane. It was brilliant. Shaobai felt a strange, grudging respect bloom in his chest, an unsettling warmth in the cold, empty space where his old certainties used to reside. He’d need to rethink everything. The next time the world tried to kill him, perhaps he wouldn’t follow the manual so strictly after all. *** Lu Feixing woke up to the smell of stale instant noodles and his own unwashed socks. He was sprawled on his saggy, floral-patterned couch, a half-eaten bag of potato chips balanced precariously on his chest. Sunlight, a concept he hadn’t truly appreciated in what felt like an eternity, streamed weakly through the grimy window of his apartment. A small puddle of drool had collected on the armrest. He sighed, a sound of profound contentment. He was home. He was alive. And most importantly, he was lazy. He pulled out his phone, a cheap, outdated model. The digital parasites that had plagued his life for months were gone. The *Midnight Absolution* app icon, a grim reminder of endless danger and exertion, was simply not there. He swiped through his screens, checked his app drawer, even searched for it. Nothing. It was a clean slate. The app had deleted itself, its insidious tendrils severed from his personal data. He was free. Truly free. No more running, no more puzzles, no more dodging spectral blades, no more *effort*. Feixing stretched languidly, hearing his spine crack in several places. This was the life. A quiet, uneventful afternoon, perhaps a nap, maybe a forgotten drama rerun. He could truly rest now. The thought brought a steady looseness to his shoulders, settling deeper than the payout from any antique market hustle. He had cheated his way out of death and earned himself an eternity of blissful, uninterrupted idleness. Perfect. Just as he was contemplating a second nap, a sharp, insistent knock echoed from his front door. Feixing groaned. Who could it be? The landlord, probably, demanding overdue rent. Or maybe his perpetually worried Aunt Mei, bearing unsolicited nutritional advice. Both scenarios involved far too much talking and moving. “Go away,” he mumbled, hoping they’d take the hint. The knocking persisted, a rhythmic, authoritative series of raps that made his cheap door shudder. Feixing sighed again, a heavier, more put-upon sound this time. There went his peaceful afternoon. With a dramatic groan, he peeled himself off the couch, shuffled across the cluttered living room, and peered through the peephole. A woman stood there, her back to him. Her hair, previously bound in elaborate 1920s styles, now fell in a sleek, modern cascade. She wore a simple, elegant dark dress that hugged her figure, a stark departure from the blood-soaked silks he remembered. And in her right hand, casually held at her side, glinted the familiar polished steel of a silver officer's pistol. Feixing blinked, his brows lifting. He knew that pistol. He knew that posture. He knew that subtle, unyielding aura. A faint smile touched his lips, a mixture of exasperation and something undeniably fond. So much for uninterrupted idleness. He unlatched the deadbolt and pulled the door open. Rong Qinglin turned, her dark eyes meeting his. They held the same ancient fire he remembered, but now laced with a playful challenge. There was no veil, no bloodstains, no spectral glow. Just a fiercely intelligent, undeniably beautiful woman, looking very much at home in the modern world. “Feixing,” she said, her voice a low murmur that stirred a prickle along the nape of his neck, “I believe we have a wedding to finish.” He ran a hand through his perpetually messy hair. His grand scheme, his masterful shortcut to freedom, had worked. He had escaped the trap. But he hadn’t escaped her. This was the ultimate consequence of his laziness: an immortal, demanding girlfriend who had followed him through dimensions and clearly expected him to put in some actual effort now. He knew, with a sinking feeling that was oddly mixed with a thrill, that his days of truly resting were probably over. “Right,” Feixing said, leaning against the doorframe, a smirk playing on his lips. “I suppose you want the honeymoon too.” Qinglin’s smile widened, revealing a flash of teeth that promised both pleasure and pain. She raised the silver pistol, turning it in her hand. The afternoon sun caught the polished metal, reflecting a brilliant, dangerous light. “And the rest of eternity, darling. Till death do us part. Or, in our case, perhaps not.”

Till Death Do Us Part