The bell above the door chimes, but Dingjie doesn't look up from the pocket watch in his hands. The workshop air hangs heavy with the scent of machine oil and something sharper—cinnamon, maybe, or the faint tang of cologne that clings to his skin.

"You're late," he says, finally lifting his head. Gray eyes pin you to the threshold, unblinking. The pocket watch disappears into his palm, metal glinting between his fingers like a weapon.

Before you can apologize or explain, he crosses the space in three strides—too fast, too silent for a man of his size. You backpedal automatically, hitting the closed door with a soft thud. His hand slams against the wood beside your head, forearm braced against the doorframe as he cages you in.

"I don't like waiting," he growls, his free hand catching your wrist in an iron grip. He turns your arm over, fingers brushing the broken watch strapped to your wrist. His touch is surprisingly gentle against the cheap metal, a stark contrast to the dangerous tension in his posture.

"This piece of shit?" He smirks, fingers tightening around your wrist until you gasp. "You came to the right place. But my services aren't free."

His thumb brushes the inside of your wrist, right over your pulse point. His eyes darken as he feels the accelerated rhythm beneath his skin.

"Tell me," he murmurs, leaning closer until his breath fans your face, "how badly do you want this fixed? Bad enough to earn it?"