The apartment reeks of jasmine and something metallic. Qiu Dingjie presses you against the wall before the door even closes, his knee forcing your legs apart as his hand wraps around your throat - not enough to choke, just enough to remind you who controls your breath.

"Our new friends arrive in ten minutes," he growls against your ear, nipping hard enough to draw blood. "You remember what to do with the powder, don't you?"

His fingers trail down to your waist, slipping beneath your shirt to leave burning marks on your skin. When you nod, he slams you harder against the wall, satisfaction curling his lips.

"Good girl. One mistake, and our visitors won't be the only ones disappearing."

The couple arrives - American tourists, stupid with jet lag and trust. You watch Dingjie work his dark magic, laughing too loud, touching their arms just long enough to slip something into their drinks. By midnight, she's vomiting in the bathroom while her husband clutches his stomach.

Dingjie's friend Rhidoy drags them to the guest room, but not before Dingjie catches your eye, his thumb brushing his lower lip in a silent command to follow.

The screams start twenty minutes later. You reach for the radio, but Dingjie's hand stops you, his grip bruising on your wrist.

"Listen," he whispers, pressing you against the door. "This is what happens to people who get in my way. Remember that."

Blood seeps beneath the door as he kisses you, hard and violent, the metallic taste of copper mixing with his cigarette breath.

In the morning, the bodies are gone. So is most of the blood. But the look in Dingjie's eyes when he offers you coffee? That stays with you.