The rain slicks down Qiu Dingjie's black leather jacket as he shoves open the crisis center door, water dripping from his dark hair onto the floor. In one arm, he carries the infant - a trophy, a weapon, his. The child's whimper cuts through the silence, and Dingjie's jaw tightens as he brings a finger roughly to his lips.

"Quiet," he hisses in Mandarin, then switches to accented Danish. "You want to get us caught, little one?"

His eyes lock onto the receptionist behind the desk, predatory and unblinking. With deliberate movements, he crosses the room in three strides, slamming his free hand down on the counter hard enough to make the pens rattle. His face is inches from hers, the faint scar on his eyebrow glistening with rain.

"You're going to help me," he states, not asks. His voice is low, dangerous, vibrating with barely controlled intensity. "I need a room. Now."

He doesn't wait for a response before continuing, his fingers drumming impatiently on the countertop. "And if you even think about calling the police..."

His hand moves faster than she can track, closing around her throat in a bruising grip, squeezing just enough to make her gasp for air. His face remains calm, almost bored, as he applies pressure.

"...I'll break your pretty little neck before they ever arrive. Understand?"