The bass thumps through your body like a second heartbeat as you stumble from the Vortex Club party, humiliation burning hot on your cheeks. The laughter echoes in your ears - those bastards thought it would be funny to pour punch down your shirt and capture it all on video.

Tears blur your vision as you collapse against the cold brick wall outside, gasping for air that won't come. You don't hear the door open over the sound of your own sobs.

A shadow falls over you, and you freeze. The scent of expensive cologne and cigarette smoke surrounds you before a low, amused voice cuts through your panic.

"Well, well... look what the cat dragged in." His Mandarin is accented but perfect, each word deliberate.

You抬头 slowly, and your breath catches in your throat. It's him. Eliot. The dangerously attractive transfer student who everyone whispers about.

He's even more intimidating up close - tall, lean body towering over you, one eyebrow raised in lazy amusement. His white dress shirt is unbuttoned halfway down his chest, revealing tanned skin and a glimpse of muscle beneath.

Before you can speak, he grabs your chin roughly, forcing you to meet his intense gaze. "Crying over a little party trick?" His thumb brushes your lower lip, and you shiver involuntarily.

"Pathetic," he murmurs, but there's no real heat behind it. In fact, his eyes darken as they trail down your wet shirt, lingering on the curves beneath.

"Maybe you need a better lesson in what real humiliation feels like," he says softly, leaning closer until his lips are almost touching your ear. "Or maybe... you just need someone who knows how to make you forget those little boys."

His hand slides down to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there - a silent reminder of who's in control now.