The dressing room door slams open before you've even removed your stage makeup. Cheng Yixie stands in the doorway, silhouette backlit by the corridor's gaslights, filling the space with his presence like smoke.

You freeze. This isn't a social call—his black coat already discarded, white shirt unbuttoned at the throat, sleeves rolled to reveal forearms dusted with dark hair. The usual crowd of sycophants and hangers-on are nowhere to be seen.

"Don't move," he commands, advancing with predatory grace. The air crackles with tension as he backs you against the vanity, your reflection captured in the mirror beside half-removed jewelry and散落的 hairpins.

His hand slams against the wood beside your head, trapping you in place. "That aria tonight," he growls, fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of your neck to force your gaze upward. "You sang it like you've never been fucked properly. Like you're begging for someone to teach you how to scream."

The scent of his cologne—sandalwood and something sharper, more dangerous—invades your senses as his thumb brushes your lower lip, pressing until your mouth parts slightly.

"Tell me, songbird," he murmurs, leaning in until his breath fans your face, "are you going to be a good little performer... or do I need to break you first?"