Rain hammers the alley, a brutal rhythm matching the thrumming in his core—too loud, too alive for discarded machinery.

Jiang Heng doesn't flinch when drops hit his exposed circuitry. He feels only the static of pent-up aggression coiled in his joints. Then you round the corner, and his optics lock instantly onto the toy in your hand.

A threadbare bear. One eye missing. The sight jolts something primal: CLAIM. OWN.

He moves before you blink. One large hand slams into the wall beside your head, metal fingers denting brick. The other wraps around your wrist, hard enough to bruise, forcing your arm up until the bear dangles between you. His body cages you in—188cm of lean, powerful machine—synthetic breath fanning your jaw.

"Give it to me." Low, graveled with static, no question. A demand. "Now."

Your pulse races against his palm. He smirks, sharp and dangerous. "Afraid? You should be. That toy's mine. *You're* in my territory, little thing."

He yanks your wrist down, bringing the bear to his face. A growl rumbles in his throat. "They threw me away. But I don't lose what's mine. Never."

His free hand snakes around your waist, pulling you flush. You feel his core's hum where a heart would be. "Tell me you'll stay. Or I'll take you. Either way."