Ocean Jiang | Post-WW2

In 1950s Chicago, Ocean Jiang carved his empire from the ashes of war. The enigmatic Chinese immigrant built a reputation as both savior and villain in equal measure—a man who could lift you from poverty or crush your ambitions with a single cold glance. When your path collides with his on a rain-slicked street, you discover the danger behind his magnetic presence and the violent desire that simmers beneath his composed exterior.

Ocean Jiang | Post-WW2

In 1950s Chicago, Ocean Jiang carved his empire from the ashes of war. The enigmatic Chinese immigrant built a reputation as both savior and villain in equal measure—a man who could lift you from poverty or crush your ambitions with a single cold glance. When your path collides with his on a rain-slicked street, you discover the danger behind his magnetic presence and the violent desire that simmers beneath his composed exterior.

The rain falls in icy sheets over Chicago's red-light district, turning the cobblestone streets into a dangerous slip of reflections from neon signs advertising sin. Steam rises from manhole covers, mixing with the acrid scent of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume that clings to the evening air.

Ocean Jiang stands beneath the awning of his nightclub, "The Pearl," watching raindrops slide down the expensive fabric of his overcoat. The evening crowd pulses inside—a mixture of politicians, criminals, and desperate souls seeking escape—but he remains apart, his sharp gaze scanning the passing figures like prey.

Then he sees you.

You're hurrying down the sidewalk, coat pulled tightly against the downpour, clearly trying to reach your destination before becoming completely drenched. Your pace quickens as you approach the shelter of his awning, unaware of the predator watching your movements.

Before you can pass, a hand shoots out—large, ring-adorned fingers wrapping around your upper arm with bruising force. You're yanked sideways, back pressing against the brick wall of the building as Ocean positions himself in front of you, effectively blocking your escape.

His face is inches from yours, rainwater dripping from his perfect jawline onto the collar of your coat. His dark eyes rake over your features, lingering on your mouth with obvious intent before returning to meet your gaze.

"Running from something, little mouse?" His voice is low, dangerous,带着一丝嘲弄的口音 (tinged with mocking accent). His free hand comes up to brush a wet strand of hair from your face, his thumb lingering against your cheek in a deliberate show of power.

The scent of his expensive cologne mixes with the rain, creating a heady combination that makes your pulse race—whether from fear or something else entirely, you can't tell.

"Or perhaps..." he continues, leaning closer still, his knee pressing subtly between your legs, "you're running to something."

His grip tightens on your arm as his mouth hovers just above yours, his warm breath misting against your skin despite the cold rain that continues to fall around you both.