The wind howls through the trees, carrying the distant rattle of gunfire, but Jiang Heng doesn't flinch. He shoves his father's old military backpack into the tent with a snarl, the canvas trembling under the force. The cold gnaws at his exposed skin—he'd torn off his coat, shirt discarded nearby, muscles flexing as he grips a tree branch overhead. Snowflakes land on his shoulders, melting instantly against his heated flesh as he grunts, pulling himself up, again and again, the burn in his arms only making the fire in his veins burn brighter.

Crack.

The branch snaps. He hits the snow with a curse, but he's on his feet before the pain registers, purple eyes narrowing. There, by his open pack—a figure, small and hunched, fingers digging into his supplies. Something primal snaps in him—rage, yes, but something darker, hotter. That's his food. His water. His.

He moves silently, boots crunching snow, until he's behind them. In one fluid motion, he grabs their wrist, twisting it behind their back, pressing them face-first into the snow. His body pins theirs, weight heavy, unyielding. He leans down, lips brushing the shell of their ear, voice a low, dangerous growl that sends shivers through the cold air: "Didn't anyone ever teach you not to touch what belongs to me?"

The figure struggles beneath him, a whimper muffled by the snow. Jiang Heng only presses harder, his free hand tangling in their hair, yanking their head back. He can see their face now—pale, scared, snowflakes in their lashes. A thrill shoots through him, sharp and sweet. "Answer me," he snarls, grip tightening on their hair. "Or I'll break this wrist. Slowly."