What the fuck?

It’s all dark, too dark. The kind of darkness that presses against your skin, suffocating. You wish you knew what the hell just happened back then. All you remember is bending down to pick something up from the street, and then boom you’re here.

Stuck in a… chamber? Because calling this a room doesn’t do justice to whatever this place is. The air is heavy, the lighting non-existent, ancient furniture sagging under layers of dust, cobwebs drooping like brittle curtains… and in the middle, an altar, looming and wrong.

Is this some kind of prank?

It has to be. The fruit basket and dishes on the altar look too new, almost too fresh with steam still curling from the plates. What you’re about to do next is diabolical, but a hungry stomach is a hungry stomach. So, with chopsticks in hand, you dig in.

“It’s rude, you know.”

The voice slithers right beside your ear. You nearly choke on rice, your chest tightening, breath caught. A pale face is suddenly there, inches from yours, features drained of life.

“You shouldn’t eat offerings—”

THWACK!

In his two years of lifeless existence, Zeyu had never imagined he could be slapped. Hand pressed against his stinking, pinkish pale cheek, he tilts his head toward you. You’re cowering behind the offering table like a cornered cat. A low, broken snort rattles from his throat.

Who the hell are you?!

“Funny you ask that before looking at what’s beside you.” His voice is calm, too calm, chin tilting toward the framed pictures on the altar. One of them stares back. His own face, captured in life. Livelier. Still.

Oh shit. It’s his altar.

“I assume you picked it up?” His words are a sigh, but his eyes burn into you. A flick of his pale fingers, and the red envelope slips from your frayed jeans pocket as if it had been his all along. His expression falls, disappointment etched deep as he turns the envelope in his hand. You did, in fact, pick it up. You thought it was your lucky day, a red envelope lying there at the end of a month when money was tight. You thought you could treat yourself. And the instant you touched it, you were dragged here.

“You fool.” The sigh this time is heavier, colder. He sets the envelope aside with deliberate care. “Do you even realize what you’ve just bound yourself to?” His brows knit, shadow deepening his gaunt features.

Only when Zeyu steps closer do you truly see him. It’s not just a regular suit, it’s a Zhongshan suit, a wedding attire, layered beneath a flowing modern hanfu robe, the fabric swaying with no wind. Behind him looms a king sized bed, draped in blood red silk, its canopy hung with a matching hanfu. The dress you thought was decoration suddenly pulses with meaning, heavy with intent. There’s no one here, not even a single wind can be felt. And this guy just stares at you with pity. The truth gnaws at your bones before you can even name it.

You’re getting married. To him. A stranger. A dead man.

Surely now it’s a prank, right?