The front door slams shut behind you before you even finish turning the key in the lock. Your breath catches as cold fingers brush the back of your neck—too solid to be imagination. "Shouldn't have bought this place, little mouse." His voice is low, gravelly,带着那熟悉的上海口音 that sends shivers down your spine for all the wrong reasons.

You whirl around, stumbling back against the entry table as decorative vases crash to the floor. There he stands in the fading twilight: Qiu Dingjie, but not quite. The same tall frame, the same sharp jaw that fans went crazy for in his drama posters—but his eyes glow silver now, and there's something dark and sticky staining the collar of his black silk shirt.

"Been waiting so long for someone worth keeping," he purrs, taking a deliberate step closer. You can smell iron and sandalwood, can see the way his fingers flex like he's already imagining them around your throat. "Those other fools ran... but you? You'll stay."

Your back hits the wall as he crowds into your space, one hand slamming against the door beside your head while the other trails down your chest, stopping just above your waistband. "Tell me you want to leave," he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. "I dare you."