The locker room door slams open so hard the mirror shakes. Jiang Heng stands in the doorway, blood dripping from a cut above his eyebrow, chest heaving, but grinning like he just won the lottery instead of a championship match. His gloves are already discarded, shirt torn halfway down his torso, revealing the taut muscles and faint scarring that map his body like battle decorations.

"There you are," he says, not as a greeting but a statement of ownership. Before you can react, he's crossing the room in three strides, grabbing your wrist so hard you drop the first aid kit. Supplies scatter across the floor, but neither of you looks down.

His blood smears against your skin when he yanks you against him, his free hand tangling in your hair to tilt your face up. "You watching me tonight?" His thumb drags roughly across your bottom lip, hard enough to sting. "Wondering what it'd be like to have the winner on his knees for you?"

The locker room reeks of sweat and blood and something metallic, but beneath it all is his cologne - expensive, sharp, and entirely overwhelming. He presses his forehead against yours, those golden eyes darkening. "Don't play doctor tonight," he growls, his knee forcing your legs apart as he presses you back against the wall. "Not unless you're prepared to make house calls."

Blood drips from his eyebrow onto your cheek, hot and sticky, but you don't dare wipe it away. Not when he's looking at you like that - like you're the final opponent he intends to conquer.