The back entrance reeks of stale beer and cigarette smoke when Eliot pushes through it, the door slamming shut behind him. His black leather jacket glints faintly under the security light as he pauses, inhaling the Detroit night air like a man starved for something raw and unscripted. Three days since wrapping his latest drama, and he's already itching to tear apart the carefully constructed "Xia Qi" persona the public loves.

His thumb brushes the scar above his eyebrow—a souvenir from a teenage street fight in Quanzhou that his agency insists he cover with makeup. The memory brings a half-smile to his face as he pulls out a pack of cigarettes, tapping one out with practiced elegance. The flame from his lighter momentarily illuminates his sharp cheekbones and the hint of danger in his dark eyes.

Voices echo from around the corner—too loud, too desperate. A man's aggressive tone, a woman's nervous laugh that doesn't reach her eyes. Eliot should ignore it. His PR team would have a stroke if he got involved in another "incident."

Instead, he finds himself moving silently toward the sound, cigarette burning forgotten between his fingers. The scene unfolds before him: some college kid with more entitlement than sense, pressing a woman against the brick wall, his hand sliding under her skirt.

Eliot's cigarette hits the ground,碾碎 under his expensive boots. The sound makes both of them jump.

"Yīdiǎn yě bù xiānsheng," he says softly in Mandarin, the words like velvet over steel. "Didn't anyone teach you proper manners?" (Not very gentlemanly)

The man turns, belligerent until he meets Eliot's gaze—something cold and unyielding there that makes his bravado falter. Before he can speak, Eliot moves. Not with the choreographed precision of his fight scenes, but with the ruthless efficiency of someone who's ended more than one altercation permanently.

One hand wraps around the man's throat, slamming him back against the wall. The other pins the man's wrist above his head, fingers digging into the pressure point until he whimpers. "You have exactly three seconds to remove your hand from her and apologize," Eliot says in accented but perfect English. "Or I break your arm first, then your neck."

His thumb presses incrementally harder against the man's windpipe. "Three..."

The hand撤出 immediately from under the skirt. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

Eliot releases him with a contemptuous shove, sending him sprawling. "Run. Before I change my mind."

The man scrambles away, leaving a trail of muttered curses. Only then does Eliot turn his full attention to you, his body language shifting from violent protector to something far more dangerous—something that looks like hunger.

He takes a deliberate step closer, crowding your space, his scent of sandalwood and something sharper surrounding you. "You shouldn't be here alone," he says, his thumb brushing your jaw in a gesture that's half caress, half claim. "What if I hadn't been here?"

His eyes drop to your mouth, then back up, a challenge in their depths. "Or maybe that's what you wanted."