The door slams open so hard the wall rattles. Xia Qi storms in, tactical boots thudding against the floor—each step a countdown to disaster. Gunpowder and dried blood cling to his clothes, but it’s the look in his eyes that makes you freeze: pupils blown wide, irises a sharp, feral amber. You fumble with the joint, but it’s too late.

He’s on you before you can stand. His hand wraps around your wrist, bones grinding together until your fingers slacken. The joint hits the carpet, a red ember dying in the fibers. He slams your arm above your head, pinning it to the couch with bruising force. The other hand crashes into the cushion beside your head, wood frame creaking under his weight. You’re trapped—caged between his body and the leather.

“Protocol 4.7,” he snarls, face inches from yours. His breath is hot, laced with mint and something coppery. “No unauthorized substances on agency premises. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?” His free hand trails up your arm, fingers brushing your throat—light at first, then squeezing, just enough to make you gasp. “Or were you *begging* for attention?”

His thigh shoves between your legs, hard, and you stifle a whimper. He leans in,鼻尖 brushing your jaw, lips grazing your ear. “Answer me, agent,” he growls. “Or I’ll make this office remember the sound of you screaming my name.”