A week later, they returned to New York. The plane landed at JFK, and the first thing Rui noticed was the familiar smell—exhaust, pizza, the faint sweetness of joss paper from Chinatown. Lao Guo was waiting for them at the gate, holding a crumpled envelope.
"It came for you two yesterday," he said, handing it to Ye. "From the SPU. Looks official."
Ye tore open the envelope, his eyes scanning the letter. A grin spread across his face, and he handed it to Rui.
"'We are pleased to offer you both full-time positions as Paranormal Consultants for the SPU's Cross-Cultural Paranormal Unit,'" she read aloud, her voice shaking. "'Salary, benefits, official badges, and a dedicated office. Start date: immediately.'"
Dao Feng cheered, slinging an arm around Ye's shoulders. "Told you they'd hire you. Now you can stop stealing my dumplings—you'll have a paycheck."
They went to the SPU office the next day. Mike was waiting for them, holding two leather badges—black, with gold lettering. He handed one to Ye, one to Rui. "Welcome to the team. Permanently. Your office is down the hall—we even put a shelf for Ye's talismans and a desk for Rui's runes."
The office was small but cozy, with a window overlooking the city. Ye hung his peachwood sword on the wall, and Rui taped her rune sketches to the desk. Dao Feng, who'd been hired as a Taoist Advisor, set up a small display case for the Xuanqing Whisk (now on loan to the SPU for "educational purposes").
Over the next few months, they handled cases all over the country:
In Miami, a 1920s jazz singer's ghost had been scaring guests at a historic hotel. Ye used his sword to calm her, and Rui helped her pass on to the Underworld—after the singer had performed one last song for the hotel's guests.
In Boston, a ghost ship had been haunting the harbor, its crew of 18th-century merchants trying to send messages to their descendants. Dao Feng used the whisk to clear the ship's Yin energy, and Mike's team tracked down the crew's families, who wrote letters back—read aloud on the ship's deck, under the stars.
In Chicago, a vampire had been feeding on college students, hiding in the basement of a fraternity house. Rui's runes trapped him, and Ye used a Four-Blood Exorcism Pill to destroy him—after the vampire admitted he'd been turned against his will, and begged for peace.
Every case brought them closer. They celebrated small wins at their favorite diner, comforted each other after hard losses (like the time a child ghost couldn't be saved), and dreamed of their next trip to Xuanqing Mountain.
One night, they were at their favorite steakhouse— the same booth, the same orders (ribeye for Ye, filet mignon for Rui)—celebrating their six-month anniversary. The restaurant was quiet, the only sound from a jazz band in the corner. Ye took her hand, his eyes serious.
"Rui Lengyu," he said, standing up. He got down on one knee, pulling a small box from his pocket. Inside was a silver ring, set with a small jade stone—from Xuanqing Mountain, he later told her. "I've loved you since the day we stood in that alley in Chinatown, watching glutinous rice turn black. I've loved you through every ghost, every zombie, every sunrise. You're my partner, my best friend, my home. Will you marry me?"
Tears welled in Rui's eyes. She nodded, her voice breaking. "Yes. Yes, I will."
The restaurant erupted in applause, and Mike and Dao Feng—who'd been hiding in the back—ran over, cheering. Dao Feng threw confetti (stolen from Lao Guo's funeral parlor), and Mike handed them a bottle of champagne.
Three months later, they were married on Xuanqing Mountain. Rui wore a white dress, and Ye wore a gray Hanfu. Qingyunzi officiated, his voice steady as he spoke of love and family. Dao Feng was the best man, and Rui's father—who'd flown in from Queens—walked her down the aisle. The sun rose as they said "I do," and the young Taoists sang a traditional Chinese song, their voices echoing through the valley.
Their honeymoon was in Paris. They visited the Louvre, where they helped a 19th-century painter's ghost find his long-lost masterpiece (hidden in a storage closet, behind a pile of old canvases). They ate croissants by the Seine, walked through the gardens of Versailles, and danced under the stars on a rooftop.
When they returned to New York, they moved into a small house in Brooklyn—with a backyard where Ye grew herbs for his talismans (mugwort, sage, peony) and a living room bookshelf where Rui kept her medium journals. The journals were filled with sketches of runes, notes on cases, and photos: the sunrise on Xuanqing Mountain, their wedding, their honeymoon in Paris, Dao Feng making a face while eating Lao Guo's soup.
One rainy afternoon, they sat on the couch, watching a movie. Rui leaned her head on Ye's shoulder, and he wrapped his arm around her. The rain tapped against the window, and the smell of Ye's sage—drying in the kitchen—filled the air.
"Remember our first case?" Rui said, smiling. "The woman in white in Chinatown. You called me 'Fei-Bi.'"
Ye laughed, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "How could I forget? You thought I was a con artist. Now you're married to me. Life's funny that way."
Rui grinned, hitting his arm lightly. "I was right about one thing—you do have a terrible sense of style. That gray Hanfu you wore to our first meeting? Horrible."
Ye gasped, pretending to be offended. "Horrible? It's traditional!"
They laughed, and Rui snuggled closer. Outside, the rain slowed, and a ray of sunlight broke through the clouds. Ye touched the peachwood pendant around her neck—the same one he'd given her before their trip to Sichuan.
"I love you," he said, quiet now.
"I love you too," she said.
They sat there, watching the sunlight dance on the floor, knowing their adventures were far from over. There would be more ghosts, more zombies, more vampires. More late nights, more close calls, more sunrises. But they had each other. They had family. And together, they were unstoppable.