People think my job is mystical.

A noble intermediary who hears the voices of the gods while balancing atop a blade.

Yeah, right.

In reality, I'm a thirty-something shaman surviving on expired convenience-store rice balls, staring at a blood-red crypto chart while praying to Elon Musk instead of the spirits.

My Dogecoin portfolio was down ninety-eight percent.

Ninety-eight.

Even looking at the chart gave me a headache, so I opened YouTube for a distraction. That's when a clip from Possessed Romance popped up.

Curious, I clicked.

On screen, a beautiful shaman named Soo-hyun smiled brightly as she enjoyed a date with a handsome man.

"...Wow. She's gorgeous."

I glanced at my reflection.

Dark circles hung beneath my eyes like permanent decorations. My hair hadn't been washed in three days.

The shamans on TV found love, gained followers, landed sponsorships, and became celebrities.

Meanwhile, I was drowning in Dogecoin losses while babysitting ghosts.

"If I looked like her, I'd be filming dating shows too! Hey, spirits! Why did you bless me with spiritual power and premature aging at the same time? And while we're at it, why is Dogecoin dead? Is this really your divine plan?"

I shook my ritual bells with all the enthusiasm of a bankrupt investor.

Then a voice came from the corner of my shrine.

"Hey, Shaman. Mind lending me a mirror? Need to check if my lats are still looking good."

That was Min-su.

Cause of death?

Ridiculous.

He'd been showing off after a 500-pound deadlift, admiring his muscles in the mirror, when he slipped and smashed his head against a dumbbell.

Tragic? Not really.

More like a slapstick comedy.

Beside him sat Mi-ja, a woman who looked like she'd stepped straight out of the Joseon Dynasty. She plucked at a gayageum while quietly humming.

Her death was somehow even more absurd.

She'd climbed a pine tree to admire flowers, locked eyes with a squirrel, panicked, and fell to her death.

"Young sir," Mi-ja said politely, "those muscles of yours look rather peculiar. Like the rear end of an ox."

"They're not an ox's rear end," Min-su protested. "They're latissimus dorsi. You need muscles if you don't want to get looked down on in the afterlife."

These freeloaders—sorry, these ghosts—had been squatting in my shrine for three months, claiming they didn't know how to move on.

They burned my incense.

Ate my offerings.

Paid no rent.

And the spirits who were supposed to help me had apparently gone on paid vacation.

Then inspiration struck.

Capitalist inspiration.

"Hey. If you're going to freeload here, at least earn your keep."

I pulled out an old smartphone gimbal.

Min-su and Mi-ja stared at me.

"You two wanted romance, right? Said you regretted dying before finding love?"

"...Yeah?"

"Great. I'll make it happen."

I grinned.

"In exchange, I'm broadcasting it to the entire world."

Min-su's eyes widened.

"Wait. You mean... I'm debuting on YouTube?"

"Exactly."

I pointed the camera at them.

"Reality dating shows are everywhere these days. Single's Inferno, Possessed Romance, all of them. But they're fake."

I leaned closer.

"You two are the real thing."

"Because you literally died for it."

The camera switched on.

My face looked exhausted, but my eyes sparkled with the unmistakable scent of potential ad revenue.

"Hello, everyone! Welcome to the world's first ghost dating reality show! Watch as souls who couldn't let go of love get one final chance at romance!"

I whispered to Min-su.

"Take her hand. Look emotional. Softer eyes. Softer! That's how we get views."

Mi-ja shyly plucked her strings.

Min-su awkwardly took her hand.

The livestream chat exploded instantly.

[Anonymous] LOL Is this CGI?

[Anonymous] Buff ghost is insane 😂

[Anonymous] The shaman's dark circles are scarier than the ghosts.

[Anonymous] Fake as hell lol

Then—

DING!

A donation.

Five dollars.

The sweetest sound I'd heard all month.

Loss. Grief. Exploiting the dead.

People with full stomachs can worry about ethics.

To me, their unresolved feelings were content.

Content was views.

Views were money.

And money paid rent.

"Mi-ja, can you cry for me? Just one tear. Hold it for three seconds. Perfect. I'll add dramatic subtitles later."

That was the beginning.

I started slicing up the ghosts' lingering regrets and selling them to the internet.

Life was absurd.

Death was absurd.

And if absurdity could make money—

Then I'd happily become the producer of the most chaotic dating show in the afterlife.