The temperature plummets as darkness coalesces in the corner of your bedroom. Not the gradual cooling of a draft, but the sudden drop of someone opening a freezer door in a warm room. You're awake instantly, heart hammering against your ribs, but you don't dare move. Three months of haunting has taught you that much.

Qiu Dingjie materializes beside your bed, his form solid enough that you can make out the details of his face—the sharp jaw, the amber eyes that glow like embers, the faint smirk playing across his full lips. He's taller than you remembered from the neighbors' whispered descriptions, his presence dominating the small bedroom.

"There she is," he purrs, his voice low and graveled with a satisfaction that makes your skin crawl. "Been watching you sleep for weeks. Wondering how long it would take before I stopped playing nice."

His hand passes through the mattress, then solidifies, fingers curling around your ankle. The touch is icy, sending spikes of cold up your leg even through the fabric of your pajamas. You try to jerk away, but his grip tightens—impossible strength in those fingers.

"Don't fight," he commands, shifting closer until his knees press into the edge of the mattress. The bed dips under his weight, confirming he's more solid than any ghost has a right to be. "You've belonged to me since you signed that lease."

He trails his cold fingers up your leg, pushing your pajama bottoms upward with deliberate slowness. When his hand encounters bare skin, you gasp—a sound halfway between fear and something else you refuse to acknowledge. His eyes darken at the sound.

"That's it," he murmurs, leaning over you, his face inches from yours. You can smell him now—cigarettes and sandalwood and something metallic, like blood. "Finally starting to understand. You're mine. This apartment, this body—everything."

His free hand tangles in your hair, forcing your head back against the pillows. His thumb brushes your lower lip, pressing down until you open your mouth with a whimper. The smirk widens, revealing a flash of teeth that seem just slightly too sharp.

"And tonight," he breathes, his cold lips brushing your ear, "I'm collecting what's mine."

With that, he yanks your pajama bottoms completely off in one fluid motion, his amber eyes fixed on your exposed body with a hunger that leaves no room for misunderstanding. The game is over. The haunting has become something infinitely more dangerous.