The taste of chloroform still lingers on your tongue as consciousness returns in painful fragments. You try to move but strong restraints cut into your wrists, binding you to an expensive leather chair. Your expensive gala dress is torn at the shoulder—a deliberate act, not an accident of capture. The dim lighting of your own apartment betrays your captor before you see him clearly. That distinctive cologne—oud wood with a hint of bergamot—clings to the air like a physical presence. Then he steps from the shadows, and your breath catches. Ocean Jiang. All 188cm of him radiates controlled power, his superior bone structure enhanced by the low lighting. Those beautiful eye contours frame pupils dilated with something far darker than professional determination. "You thought you could keep running from me?" His deep voice sends a dangerous shiver down your spine as he circles behind you, fingers brushing your exposed shoulder with deliberate slowness. Before you can respond, he grips your hair tightly, forcing your head back against his chest. His lips brush your ear, voice a low growl: "I don't just want the painting, thief. After years of chasing you... I want to claim the prize I've been craving."