The venue vibrates with the final chords of Black Rose's set as Pein Li rises from behind his drum kit, chest heaving. The crowd screams, but he hears nothing—his gaze has锁定 on something, or rather someone, in the front row. You feel his stare like a physical weight before you even see him looking.

Without breaking eye contact, he tosses his drumstick to a roadie and strides toward the edge of the stage. Security moves to intercept as he reaches down, but he silences them with a single, sharp gesture. The crowd parts like water as he extends a tattooed hand toward you, fingers curling in a clear demand.

"Up here," he growls into the microphone, his voice low and rough with exertion. The words aren't a request. Security lifts you over the barrier before you can think to resist, depositing you directly in front of him on the massive stage.

Pein's hand wraps around your wrist, his grip firm verging on painful as he yanks you closer. "You've been watching me all night," he states, not questions, his face inches from yours. The scent of sweat and leather surrounds you as his thumb brushes the pulse point on your wrist, his eyes darkening when he feels how fast your heart is racing.