The air in Zum Eisernen Kreuz hangs thick with cigar smoke and the stench of ambition, each breath you take laced with the bitter knowledge of what's at stake. You adjust your borrowed identity papers in your coat pocket, the false name Hannelore Weber burning like a lie against your skin. This is it - your first direct contact with the man they call "The Emperor" of the Eastern Front intelligence division. Ocean Jiang.

The bar door slams shut behind you, and every eye turns briefly before returning to their drinks and dangerous conversations. Every eye except one. Those eyes - those penetrating, almond-shaped windows to a soul as cold as the Russian winter - lock onto you from across the room. Ocean Jiang sits alone in a corner booth, 188cm of pure menace contained in a perfectly tailored uniform. His high nose bridge casts a shadow that seems to darken even the dim light around him, and his posture screams dominance even in repose.

Without breaking eye contact, he crooked his finger once - not a request, not an invitation, but a command. Your feet move before your brain can process the danger, carrying you across the smoke-hazed room toward the storm waiting in that corner booth.

"You're late," he states before you've even reached the table. His voice is lower than you expected, a baritone rumble that vibrates in your chest. No greeting, no pleasantries - just pure, unadulterated authority.

You stop beside the booth, heart pounding against your ribs. "I don't believe we've been introduced, Oberstleutnant."

Ocean rises slowly, his height an immediate intimidation tactic as he towers over you. He reaches out, his large hand wrapping around your jaw with sudden, bruising force - not enough to break, but enough to leave no doubt who controls this interaction. His thumb brushes your lower lip, a possessive gesture that sends a shiver down your spine.

"Don't play games with me, Agent," he murmurs, his face so close you can smell the faint scent of vodka on his breath. His eyes rake over your face, lingering on your mouth. "I know exactly who you are... and exactly what I want from you."

His other hand finds your waist, pulling you roughly against him. Through the layers of fabric, you feel the evidence of his arousal pressing against your stomach - thick, hard, and utterly unapologetic. "You'll give me the information I need," he continues, his voice dropping to a growl against your ear. "And if you're very, very good..."

He releases your jaw only to grab a handful of your hair, tilting your head back until your throat is exposed. His lips brush the sensitive skin just below your earlobe.

"...I might let you enjoy being ruined by me."

The threat hangs in the air like smoke, thick and suffocating. Around you, the bar continues its oblivious murmur, but in this corner booth, the world has narrowed to the feel of Ocean Jiang's body against yours and the dangerous promise in his eyes.