In the darkness, that vivid crimson glared with unbearable intensity.

Stared into by hollow eyes, Dr. Chen was gripped by a terror beyond compare—no malevolent ghost could ever match it. His body turned ice-cold, stiff and frozen in place, as if he’d already become a corpse.

A deathly silence. A maddening, suffocating quiet.

The Crimson Robe spoke not a word, made no move. Yet that wordless gaze carved deeper dread into Dr. Chen’s soul.

“S-sorry… I’m late! I’ll sleep right now, immediately… Let’s sleep… C-could you please go back into the urn?”

After what felt like an eternity, teeth chattering, Dr. Chen finally stammered the words.

He’d seen this stare in dreams before—but never like this. Now, death itself crept closer. An invisible force clamped his throat, threatening to snap it any second.

Before his terrified eyes, the Crimson Robe’s black hair lengthened, slithering across the floor like venomous snakes, crawling straight toward him.

“W-wait! We can talk! I’ll never come home this late again—I promise! Sorry! I was wrong! AAAAAH!”

Paralyzed, he watched the strands coil around his legs, creeping slowly up his torso. The last trace of drunkenness vanished. He wished he could slap himself for that craving-driven dinner.

“Cough… no…!"

The strands had risen past his chest. A bone-chilling cold seized his heart. Breath failed. Vision blurred.

“I… brought you… milk tea…”

With his final strength, Dr. Chen fumbled in his shoulder bag and pulled out the cold drink.

He’d meant it as an experiment—would the Crimson Robe like sweet drinks? Now, it was a desperate gamble: could this calm her wrath?

“I… can’t… hold on…”

Darkness swallowed his sight. His head lolled. Consciousness fled. The milk tea slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor.

***

The next noon.

“AAAAAAH——! I was wrong! I’ll never come home late again!”

Dr. Chen jolted awake, drenched in cold sweat, gasping.

“Am I… alive?” Feeling his pulse and warmth, he let out a shaky sigh.

“That was terrifying.”

Still trembling, he muttered: tales of midnight hair-combing or the Hell Bus were child’s play compared to *her*.

This was fear beyond death. Dying no longer scared him. What haunted him was the thought—becoming a ghost, eternally enslaved by the Crimson Robe, enduring a malevolent ghost’s “eternal love.”

“From now on… I must never anger her.”

Wiping sweat, he spotted the ancient urn on the bedside table and bowed hastily before it.

In the living room, his eyes locked on the empty milk tea cup atop the coffee table.

“So it really *can* save a life.”

It clicked—offerings. He remembered Qingming Festival tomb-sweeping: wine poured, cigarettes lit, meat laid before graves. He’d dismissed it as superstition, a comfort for unresolved filial duty. But now? Offerings *worked*.

Only the Crimson Robe preferred milk tea over wine and meat. Should he add cakes? Pastries? Anything to win her favor?

Seized by urgency, Dr. Chen bolted downstairs. He bought out the entire bakery—every cake, every pastry—even overdrafting his credit.

“Starting today,” he declared, piling over ten pounds of cakes, twenty-plus cups of milk tea, and assorted pastries around the urn, “I’ll take care of you!”

Then he spun around, fled the room without a glance back, and slammed the door shut.