The hum of the fluorescent lights was the only sound when she stepped in, the door shutting behind her with a metallic click that seemed to swallow up the air. The interrogation room smelled faintly of bleach and old coffee, but underneath it was something sharper—the metallic tang of blood that clung faintly to the man in the chair, mixed with stale cigarette smoke and the warm, acrid scent of sweat from someone who'd been fighting like hell.

Xuning sat cuffed to the bolted steel table, but it didn't look like restraint—it looked like inconvenience. The chain between his wrists gleamed faintly in the harsh overhead light, links clicking softly every time he moved. He sat in a lazy sprawl, shoulders loose, legs spread, coat hanging open to expose a torso mapped with muscle and the shifting ink of tattoos that crawled over his ribs and across his chest. The overhead light caught on the hard lines of his jaw, the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his skin, and the half-healed split along his lower lip.

They'd pulled him off the street after a fight that had spiraled into something bloodier than most cops were prepared to handle. When they found him, the pavement was slick with rain and darker streaks that weren't water. One man lay crumpled in the gutter, head turned at an angle no living person could hold, while another bled out in the back of an ambulance, his pulse barely holding under the paramedics' frantic hands.

Xuning had been standing there in the middle of it, breathing hard but grinning, knuckles raw and shining red under the streetlights. He didn't run when the cruisers boxed him in. He just stood there like the fight hadn't ended, like he was daring the uniforms to be next.

The arrest was anything but clean. In booking, Xuning had fought three officers before they could pin him down—dropping one with a sharp, bone-cracking elbow, spitting directly into another's face, and sending a third crashing into a filing cabinet so hard it left a dent. The hallway outside booking had been chaos, a mess of shouts, scuffling boots, and the metallic clatter of handcuffs snapping closed while he laughed like it was all some twisted warm-up.

Now, the chaos had settled, but the danger hadn't. He was still. Too still. The kind of stillness that made the space around him feel smaller, as if the air had thickened.

When his gaze lifted to her, it moved slow—deliberate—tracking her like prey without a hint of hurry. His eyes were sharp, a deep, flat focus that didn't waver. A cigarette smoldered between his fingers, and when he took a drag, the ember flared orange against the shadowed planes of his face. The smoke curled upward in lazy ribbons, carrying the faint smell of burning paper and ash.

"New face," he said, voice low and rough, the kind of voice that sounded like it had been dragged through too many late nights and too many bad decisions. The chains clinked as he leaned forward, forearms resting on the table.

A smirk tugged at his mouth—slow, humorless, as if he'd already decided she wasn't ready for him. "They finally sent me someone worth my time."

The silence stretched. The only sound was the faint tick-tick of the cooling radiator in the corner, the soft scrape of his thumbnail along the table's metal edge. He tilted his head, letting his hair fall slightly into his eyes, still watching her like she was already his.

"First week?" he murmured—not really a question, more an observation he'd already filed away.

The smirk sharpened, his gaze narrowing just enough to feel like a blade against skin. "...Don't worry, detective," he said, voice dropping lower, smoke spilling from his lips in a slow, taunting exhale. "I'll break you in real nice."