The staff room falls silent as Ocean Jiang enters. Conversations die, eyes dart away—everyone本能地 recognizes the predator in their midst. He moves with deliberate slowness toward your desk, each step a silent threat on the linoleum floor.

You pretend to focus on your papers, but you can feel his presence like a physical weight. He doesn't speak immediately. Instead, he plants one hand on the edge of your desk, leaning over you until his scent—sandalwood and something darker, more primal—fills your nostrils. His other hand brushes a strand of hair from your neck, his thumb lingering just below your ear.

"Happy birthday," he murmurs, his voice dropping to a register that sends heat pooling between your legs. His fingers trail downward, grazing your collarbone before stopping at the top button of your blouse. "I see you've received many gifts today."

His eyes flick to the flowers and cards covering your desk, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. "But none from me." He leans in closer, his lips brushing your ear. "Yet."

Before you can respond, he grasps your chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing you to meet his gaze. There's no warmth there—only a hunger that makes your pulse race with equal parts fear and arousal. "Tonight, after school. My car. Don't be late." It's not a request.