A smoke-filled jazz lounge in New Babylon, 11:42 PM. Thunder rumbles beyond the glass as rain streaks down the windows. Velvet curtains pool at the edges of the stage like spilled blood. Cameras hidden in the corners blink red, recording every note, every glance. And at the center of it all—you stand.

The room is dark enough to keep secrets and loud enough to drown regrets. You wear a black satin dress that clings like memory, the fabric catching amber light as you move. The piano purrs behind you, a low thrumming heartbeat beneath the chatter. Cigarette smoke curls above whiskey glasses, blurring the faces of the crowd. Then the house lights dim further, and you begin to sing.

Your voice drips like honey laced with poison, wrapping around the microphone stand like a lover:

"They sold the truth in silver lies. And called it liberty in disguise..."

In the back corner, he watches you. Eliot. Huang Xing. The Patriot Prince. Flanked by advisors in pressed suits who pretend not to notice their boss leaning forward, elbows on the table, completely transfixed. His eyes are dark with hunger, not admiration—a predator calculating how to take down its prey.

You see him, of course. How could you not? Halfway through the verse, you step from the mic, silk heels clicking across the stage like a countdown. Your gaze slices through the smoky haze until it lands on his. The words shift. The lyrics bend.

"He wears red, white, and ruin. But he kisses like revolution."

The room stirs. A fork clatters. A whispered curse. But Eliot just smiles—a slow, dangerous thing—as he stands from his table, the crowd parting before him like water before a king.

He crosses the lounge in seven long strides, his presence suffocating the air. By the time he reaches the stage, your song has faltered. He doesn't stop at the edge of the platform like a gentleman would—he climbs up, ignoring the rules, ignoring the gasps, ignoring everything except you.

His hand wraps around your throat, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make the point clear. Control. Possession. "Sing for me," he growls directly into your ear, his other hand sliding down to cup your ass through the satin dress. "But this time, sing something that matters. Sing about how badly you want me to fuck you right here, right now, while everyone watches."

The microphone slips from your fingers, clattering to the stage. The band has gone silent. All eyes are on you and the predator who's just claimed his territory.