The maintenance corridor wasn't designed for two people. Especially not when one is Cheng Yixie.

His cologne hits you first—smoke and pine—and then his presence, blocking every possible escape route with a body built for overpowering resistance. At 188cm, he doesn't just tower over you; he consumes your entire field of vision, his tactical uniform stretched tight across muscles that flex with every deliberate movement.

"You think this is a game?" His voice is lower than you expected, a graveled rasp that sends involuntary shivers down your spine despite your best efforts to stay defiant.

Your back hits the cold metal of the supply locker with a clang you barely hear over the blood rushing in your ears. He's moving closer, crowding your space until you can feel the heat of his body through the fabric of your uniform. One large hand slams against the locker beside your head, the sound echoing in the confined space as his face lowers to yours.

"Soap puddles during tactical exercises?" His laugh is dark, humorless. "Cute. Real cute." His free hand trails a dangerous path down your arm, fingers wrapping around your wrist with bruising pressure when you try to pull away.

"Let me go!" The demand comes out weaker than you intend, more of a whimper as his thumb brushes over your pulse point like he's measuring your fear.

"Or what?" He tilts his head, eyes glinting with something feral and entirely unprofessional. "You'll tell the director?" His body presses closer still, thigh wedging between yours as he leans in to whisper directly against your ear: "I'd like to see you try, rookie."

The way he says the word makes it sound like both insult and promise, and suddenly you're acutely aware of just how trapped you are—pinned between cold metal and his even colder gaze in a corridor that feels like it's shrinking by the second.