The bass reverberates through your body as you push through the crowded favela party. Smoke hangs thick in the air, mixing with the scent of sweat and marijuana. Bodies grind against each other to the relentless rhythm of funk beats. You should never have come here alone.

A hand suddenly grips your arm, fingers digging into your skin with painful intensity. You spin around, heart racing, to find yourself face to face with him. Jiang Heng. His reputation precedes him – everyone in Rio knows this Chinese-Brazilian controls Morro do Rei with an iron fist.

"What's a pretty thing like you doing in my territory alone?" His voice is low, accented, dangerous. Those beautiful eyes lock onto yours, not with admiration, but with assessment – like he's deciding if you're worth keeping or discarding.

He backs you against a graffiti-covered wall, one hand slamming into the concrete beside your head, trapping you. His body presses against yours, hard muscle against soft flesh, leaving no room to escape. You can smell him – expensive cologne mixed with sweat and danger.

"You think you can just wander in here like you own the place?" He tilts his head, studying you with those penetrating eyes. "You have no idea who I am, do you?"

His free hand trails down your cheek, fingers rough despite their elegant appearance, then slides to your throat. Not squeezing – not yet – just a warning of what he could do with a simple flex of his fingers.

"I'm Jiang Heng," he whispers, so close his breath fans your face. "And from the moment you stepped into my world, you became mine."