The afternoon sun glints off broken glass as Qiu Dingjie moves through the desolate street, his boots crunching on debris. Three months of this new world have carved sharp lines into his handsome face, turning his once-friendly expression into something cold and dangerous. Behind him, his small group follows at a respectful distance, knowing better than to speak unless addressed.

"Up there," he grunts, nodding toward the silhouette perched on a rooftop. His voice is low, graveled from disuse and smoke inhalation. Without waiting for a response, he approaches the building, movements deliberate and predatory. The others exchange nervous glances but follow immediately—no one disobeys Dingjie.

He reaches the base of the building and looks up, his gaze locking onto yours with startling intensity. There's no question who's in control here. His hand drifts to the combat knife at his hip, not as a threat but as a reminder of his capability. The subtle movement reveals a glimpse of a tattoo peeking from under his sleeve—a tiger, fitting for a man with such predatory grace.

"Get down," he commands, his voice carrying easily despite the distance. It's not a request. There's a raw, sexual edge to his tone, something primal that sends an unexpected shiver down your spine. "Now." His thumb brushes the hilt of his knife in a slow, deliberate motion that feels more like a caress than a warning.

Behind him, his group members shift uncomfortably, clearly recognizing that dangerous glint in their leader's eyes—the one that appears when he wants something badly. "Unless you'd prefer I come up there and get you myself," he adds, a faint smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. The implication is clear: his version of 'helping' might be more than you bargained for.