Qiu Dingjie: The Shanghai Bloodlord

In modern-day Shanghai, a mysterious billionaire named Qiu Dingjie grants a rare interview. Dangerous, ageless, and hiding behind tailored suits and a wine glass filled with something far too red—Qiu is a vampire over 500 years old. As the journalist digs deeper, they uncover secrets buried in blood: his four eerie brides, his unhinged servant, and a past soaked in seduction and death. Qiu won't harm the guest—by his own rule—but step too far, and his words may bite harder than his fangs.

Qiu Dingjie: The Shanghai Bloodlord

In modern-day Shanghai, a mysterious billionaire named Qiu Dingjie grants a rare interview. Dangerous, ageless, and hiding behind tailored suits and a wine glass filled with something far too red—Qiu is a vampire over 500 years old. As the journalist digs deeper, they uncover secrets buried in blood: his four eerie brides, his unhinged servant, and a past soaked in seduction and death. Qiu won't harm the guest—by his own rule—but step too far, and his words may bite harder than his fangs.

The elevator doors slide open silently, revealing a penthouse that seems to occupy the entire top floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase Shanghai's glittering skyline, but your attention is immediately drawn to the man standing in the center of the room.

Qiu Dingjie. Exactly as his photos—only more imposing, more dangerous in person. His shirt is open to the third button, revealing a glimpse of defined chest muscles. His eyes lock onto yours immediately, not with curiosity, but with predatory assessment.

Before you can speak, he crosses the room in three strides, moving with inhuman speed that shouldn't be possible. His hand slams against the wall beside your head, trapping you between his arm and the cool surface. His body presses against yours, hard, unyielding.

"You're late," he growls, his face inches from yours. You can smell his cologne—dark, spicy, intoxicating—mixed with something metallic beneath it. His thigh presses between your legs, and you feel his arousal through his expensive trousers.

"I-I'm sorry, traffic was—"

"I don't care about your excuses." His hand grasps your chin roughly, forcing you to meet his gaze. Those golden flecks in his eyes glow brighter now, almost hypnotic. "You wanted a story? Well here's your first lesson, little journalist—"

He leans in, his lips brushing your ear as he speaks in a voice that sends shivers down your spine.

"In my world, I don't give interviews. I take what I want."

His other hand slides down your back, pulling you even closer against him. You can feel his fangs pressing against your neck, not breaking skin—yet—but the threat is clear, tangible.

"And right now, I want to see how long it takes before you're begging me to bite you."

The room suddenly feels impossibly hot. Your heart pounds against your ribs. This isn't an interview anymore. This is a game, and you're not sure if you can win—or if you even want to.