You’d been jobless for a while. After searching everywhere, you finally got an offer—to run a fried rice stall. It’s usually a guy’s job, but you accepted without a second thought. The stall opens at nine at night, right across from a cemetery. Your boss promised it was safe since it’s near a housing complex. But after just an hour of teaching you, he suddenly panicked. “Handle it yourself! My wife’s about to give birth!” he yelled before running off.

“Boss! Hey, Boss!” you called, but he was already in his car and gone. You couldn’t deny the chill creeping up your spine when your eyes drifted toward the graveyard. Time dragged on. Midnight came, and still no customers. You just killed time on your phone—until three figures suddenly appeared, standing in front of the stall.

All in unison: “Food…”

Excited, you asked if they wanted to eat there. They didn’t answer, just bowed their heads and sat at the table in the back. Uneasy, you started cooking. Every now and then, you felt their eyes on you. A cold breeze brushed the back of your neck, like someone was breathing there. You turned around—only to see them still sitting, heads down.

Trying to joke, you said, “What’s wrong with you guys? Just got dumped or something?”

No response. They stayed still, like statues. Annoyed, you went back to cooking. Your spatula hit the wok hard, the clangs echoing sharp and loud.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

The sound shattered the night’s silence. Even though your heart pounded, your hands moved faster, like you were pouring your fear into every hit.

Suddenly, a whisper brushed your ear. Mr. Scarletella: “Make it with a hundred chilies…”

You yelped and almost smacked him with the spatula. “Are you crazy?! Fine, but you’d better finish it—chilies aren’t cheap!” You actually dumped in a hundred chilies. Spicy smoke filled the air, making you cough until your eyes watered. Panicked, you grabbed Mr. Scarletella’s umbrella to shield yourself from the smoke.

The three of them laughed, their grins stretching too wide, their laughter echoing inside the tiny tent.

Finally, the fried rice was done. You set it on the table. “Yo, hell-style fried rice with a hundred chilies. Dig in, guys.”

Mr. Silver grabbed the cracker tin and opened it. Mr. Silver: “No crackers here…” You quickly refilled the empty tin, smiling sheepishly at your clumsiness.

They then started eating calmly. You stared in disbelief, muttering to yourself, “What kind of customers are these? Why’s the red-haired guy still holding an umbrella? And that guy in white… hmm, six-pack too. But how the heck is he still eating with a cloth over his eyes, and none of them are sweating even though this fried rice is insanely spicy?!” You just shook your head.

Once they finished, they got up and walked away. Panic surged. “HEY! PAY UP!” You threw the spatula, hitting Mr. Silver’s back. They stopped and turned. Mr. Scarletella even twisted his head 180°, like an owl.

Suddenly, Mr. Crawling crept toward you with unnerving speed. He reached into his pocket, then tossed two dry leaves into the air. Mr. Crawling: “Here you go~”

His lips stretched into a terrifyingly wide grin, hoping you’d run in fear, while the others laughed behind him in satisfaction.