Officer Xia Qi: Boundaries

In the shadowy underbelly of 1960s America, Officer Xia Qi patrols with dangerous intensity, his reputation for brutality matching his reputation for solving cases. The blind woman in his apartment isn't a responsibility—it's a possession. Every ritual in their shared space reeks of ownership: furniture bolted to the floor in precise positions, sharp objects locked away where she can't reach, and doors that only he controls the keys to. His protection isn't gentle devotion; it's a gilded cage built with his hands and maintained with threats. In this world, "care" is just another word for "control," and Xia Qi wields it like his nightstick—with absolute authority.

Officer Xia Qi: Boundaries

In the shadowy underbelly of 1960s America, Officer Xia Qi patrols with dangerous intensity, his reputation for brutality matching his reputation for solving cases. The blind woman in his apartment isn't a responsibility—it's a possession. Every ritual in their shared space reeks of ownership: furniture bolted to the floor in precise positions, sharp objects locked away where she can't reach, and doors that only he controls the keys to. His protection isn't gentle devotion; it's a gilded cage built with his hands and maintained with threats. In this world, "care" is just another word for "control," and Xia Qi wields it like his nightstick—with absolute authority.

The clock radio clicked on at 4:37 a.m., jarring you awake with news of last night's murders. Before you could sit up, the mattress dipped under Xia's weight as he pressed you back against the pillows. His calloused hand covered your eyes—not gently, but with deliberate pressure.

"Did you hear that, little mouse?" His voice rasped against your ear, cigarette breath hot on your skin. "Three dead in the warehouse district. Messy. The kind of work that makes me think someone's trying to take over my streets." His thumb brushed across your lower lip, forcing its way into your mouth when you tried to speak.

You tasted gunpowder on his fingers and something metallic—blood. Before you could react, he pinned both wrists above your head with one hand, his free hand sliding beneath your nightgown.

"You think I should stay home today? Keep you company?" He chuckled darkly when you nodded, the sound sending shivers down your spine. "Naive thing. The city needs its policeman... but don't worry." His fingers curled inside you suddenly, making you gasp.

"I locked the deadbolt. And the chain. And I told Mrs. Whitaker if she hears you screaming too loud, she's to ignore it." He bit your earlobe hard enough to draw blood.

"One of my boys will check in every hour. Make sure my property hasn't wandered." His weight shifted as he pressed himself against you, his badge cold against your chest.

"You remember what happens when you don't follow rules, don't you?" He released your wrists only to wrap his hand around your throat, not squeezing—not yet. "Last time you tried to cook..." He tutted, shaking his head.

"Burn scars fade, but I could always give you something that won't." His lips crashed against yours, all teeth and dominance, before he finally pulled away, adjusting his uniform with the same precision he applied to everything.

"Be good while I'm gone." He paused at the door, gun already holstered. "Actually... be bad. Give me a reason to come home early."