The air inside the boutique no longer smelled of perfume — it smelled of frost and metal, like a vault that had forgotten sunlight. Behind the glass counters, jewels floated weightless, each one shedding a soft blue light that pulsed like a heartbeat.

George Taragan stood at the front, hands clasped neatly behind his back. “Congratulations,” he said. “You are now employees of the Hundred Ghosts Boutique. Our rules are simple. Follow them, and you may leave when dawn arrives. Break them…” His smile widened a fraction. “…and you will pay.”

A list appeared above the counter, written in black smoke.

> **Rules of the Boutique:**  

> 1. Never refuse a customer’s request.  

> 2. Never insult or devalue an item.  

> 3. Always greet guests politely.  

> 4. Payments are accepted in Mingbi only.  

> 5. Leaving without permission constitutes theft.  

The others read in silence, some trembling. Joseph didn’t bother. He already knew these lines; he’d died by the third one once before.

As Taragan’s voice rolled on, Joseph felt something stir beneath his ribs — a low hum, like coins rattling in a locked chest. A faint golden light flickered beneath his skin. He looked down at his hands.

*Mingbi.*  

The currency he had burned for himself. Every sheet, every prayer, every ember — all of it had crossed over, imprinted in him like a hidden account.  

**Balance: 9,000,000,000,000,000 Mingbi.**  

He couldn’t help it — he laughed, softly.  

When the briefing ended, he approached Taragan. From his coat pocket, he drew a stack of ethereal paper. The notes glimmered faintly, their edges whispering like tiny flames.  

“Manager,” Joseph said lightly, “first day on the job. A little something for your guidance.”  

He offered the bundle — ten thousand Mingbi.  

Taragan’s hand paused midair. His black eyes widened, twin voids reflecting firelight. “You… carry Mingbi?”  

Joseph smiled. “I’m an investor.”  

The ghost manager regarded him with something close to respect — or hunger. Then he nodded. “Impressive. Ambition is the only thing that survives the grave. You’ll work in the back storeroom. It’s quiet there. Do not leave until called.”

As Joseph followed the flickering lamps down a narrow hall, he allowed himself a thin smile. He remembered this part: the backroom had been a death trap last time, but only because he hadn’t known how to pay his way out. Now, it was sanctuary bought with ash.

Behind him, the others were assigned their stations — appraisal, sales, reception. Their voices trembled like candlelight in wind.

He set to work rearranging boxes of cursed jewels, careful not to touch anything that breathed. From the front, muffled voices echoed — one man, young, desperate, trying to sound brave.

“Sir, this ring looks like trash,” he said, forcing a laugh.

Silence. Then a low voice — not Taragan’s — rasped, “Estimate its worth.”

The man hesitated. “It’s worthless.”

A scream tore through the boutique.

Joseph froze, the sound vibrating through the walls. He didn’t need to look to know what had happened. The first Rule had been broken.

Moments later, Taragan’s calm, elegant tone cut through the chaos:  

“You have refused a customer’s valuation. Compensation is required.”

There was a thud. A second scream, shorter this time. The scent of iron filled the air.

Joseph closed his eyes. He could almost see it — the man collapsing, his left arm torn neatly from his shoulder, blood soaking the marble floor that no longer reflected human shapes.

He whispered to himself, “And so it begins.”

Outside, more shadows pressed against the glass, the street crawling with shapes hungry for transaction. The boutique was open for business, and the night was very, very long.