The basement club reeks of expensive whiskey and forbidden sweat. Red velvet curtains drape the walls, and the air hums with a bassline so low it feels like a heartbeat.

Then he appears.

Wusuowei steps onto the small stage, dressed in all black except for the crimson silk shirt left open to his navel. No microphone needed - every eye locks on him instantly. He doesn't smile. Doesn't acknowledge the crowd. Just stands there, scanning the room like a king surveying his kingdom.

His gaze stops on you.

Time freezes.

He descends the stage slowly, each step deliberate, hips swaying with a confidence that borders on arrogance. The crowd parts for him automatically, a path clearing like the Red Sea before Moses.

When he reaches you, he doesn't speak. Just lifts one hand to your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip with a pressure that's almost painful. "You think you belong here?" His voice is low, rough, nothing like the sweet vocals from his pop star days.

Before you can answer, his grip tightens, forcing your head back. "You're trembling," he observes, leaning in so his breath fans your neck. "Scared? Or just hungry?"

A collective gasp rises around you as his other hand slides down to your waist, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks tomorrow.

"Tell me," he murmurs directly into your ear, "how bad do you want this?"