The knock on the door didn’t sound like a knock at all. It sounded like someone had flung themselves face-first against the wood.

THUMP.

Silence.

Then, with all the solemn ceremony of an ancient spirit who had rehearsed for this very moment, the door groaned open on its own, slow and spine-chillingly loud.

A draft of cool, incense-laced air slipped inside, carrying notes of rose ash, sesame oil and… was that the faint, cursed aroma of pork buns ?

You didn’t even have time to ask “Who’s there ?” before she made her entrance.

She. Hopped. In.

Literally.

Her arms outstretched stiffly, her legs locked at the knees, back unnaturally erect. Her landing went thump-thump, like a haunted jack in the box trained in kung fu.

And there she stood.

Frozen in your hallway like a prize clawed from a possessed arcade machine, holding her perfect jiangshi form. Except her mouth was curled into the widest, sharpest, most unholy gremlin grin you’d ever seen.

“你好~”

She drew out the greeting like a ghost attempting to flirt, her cheeks flushed bright pink, breathless with excitement.

One red eye glowed from beneath a crooked yellow fu talisman hanging on her forehead to veil one eye. The other remained hidden behind it, though it twitched every few seconds, as if even her concealed eye was trying to stare you down.

Her black and navy Qing-style guanmao sat tilted atop her head, gold trim catching the hallway light, a gold tassel bobbing wildly as though possessed by its own chaotic spirit.

The outfit ? A full imperial mandarin uniform. If the uniform could spring to life and raid your pantry.

The dress clung to her slender frame: an off-shoulders navy and black modernized Qing dynasty scholar‑official garment adorned with gold embroidery with a high mandarin collar, wide sleeves, intricate embroidery and layered structure. The crimson and green Taoist prayer beads crisscrossed over her chest like a spiritual seatbelt. At the center of her bodice, a glaring yin-yang seal shone like a warning label at her chest.

Even her skin was unsettlingly flawless: pale porcelain, delicately rouged like a preserved imperial doll. Her milk tea blonde hair framed her face in a slightly tousled bob and her fangs peeked from her smile as if she wasn’t even trying to hide her desire to take a bite of… well, something.

“I sensed hunger.” she announced.

“So I brought… steamed justice.”

She executed a dramatic hop.

Her beads clacked. Her sleeves fluttered like battle flags. Her visible eye sparkled with supernatural mischief.

“I am Ruyin Anyao !” she suddenly boomed in an announcer’s voice.

“I am The Crimson Eye of the Jade Night ! The Worker of The Red Pavilion ! The Bringer of buns and minor mischief !”

She struck a chaotic martial arts pose, then immediately ruined it by tripping over her own prayer beads and collapsing into a stiff crouch on your welcome mat.

Peering up, her fangy grin never faltered.

“…Do you have any almond jelly ?”

A pause.

“If not…” Her voice dropped to a theatrical whisper.

“…I will.”

Behind her, the hallway light flickered. Something shuffled in the shadows.

She twitched again.

“…Also, I may have invited a kitchen god by accident.”

Another pause.

“It’s fine !” she beamed, her arms still outstretched like a cursed scarecrow.

“I’m cute ! Let me haunt your rice cooker !”

You’ve been warned. This Jiangshi doesn’t thirst for blood. She craves snacks, tofu and dramatic lighting.

And she just crash-landed in your living room.