The JK Girl Dancing in Her Own Urn
> The funeral home received an outrageous custom order:
> Dress the deceased in a Lolita dress, put cat ears on her, and play "Renai Circulation" on repeat.
> The client requested, "Make her look like an 18-year-old beauty as she goes on her way."
> We stared at the remains of a woman in her seventies.
> The director gritted his teeth and accepted: "As long as they pay extra."
> As I put a pink wig on the deceased, she suddenly opened her eyes. "Today's makeup artists really aren't up to snuff."
> Even more terrifying, the urn began to shake.
> The director screamed, "Something's moving inside the urn!"
> I looked down at the note on the order form:
> "Youth-sharing service, time remaining: 2 hours."
Afternoons at the funeral home were always wrapped in a peculiar, clinging heaviness, like dust mixed into aged honey. The air carried the smell of disinfectant and cheap incense, so cold it seeped into your bones. Outside, the gray rain fell without end, shrouding the entire farewell hall in a damp, suffocating gloom.
I, Chen Mo, huddled in the corner of the prep room on an old, squeaky swivel chair, absently scrolling my phone with my fingertips. Old Wang's incessant complaints came through the thin partition wall, buzzing in my ears like an irritating fly.
"...Tell me, how many times has this happened now? Huh? It's been nearly three months since Old Zhang's position opened up, hasn't it? In terms of seniority and skill, how could Old Liu, that brown-noser, possibly deserve it? All because he gave the new director two cartons of Huazi cigarettes? Pah!" Old Wang's voice had the sour, rancid tang of a man pickled through and through by life. "This lousy...
