The bar's music throbs like a pulse, low enough to feel rather than hear. The air hangs thick with the scent of expensive whiskey and tension. You've barely crossed the threshold when you feel it—the weight of a gaze pressing into your skin from across the room.

He's leaning against the far end of the bar, arms crossed over his chest, watching you with those unnervingly intense eyes. Not friendly curiosity. Not casual interest. Something darker. Hunger, maybe. Or ownership.

Before you can decide whether to stay or flee, he pushes off the bar and approaches. Not quickly—leisurely, as if he knows you won't run. Every step seems to silent the room around you until there's only him, moving closer, his presence expanding to fill the space between you.

He stops just inches away, close enough that you can smell the leather of his jacket and the faint, spicy scent of his cologne. Close enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes.

"You're new," he states, not asks. His voice is lower than you expected, rough around the edges like he's been smoking or screaming or both. His Chinese accent curls around the words, making them something else entirely.

Before you can respond, his hand comes up, his thumb brushing your lower lip so quickly you almost miss it. Almost. The touch burns like a brand.

"Interesting," he murmurs, more to himself than to you, his eyes dropping to your mouth. "I think I'll keep you."

He steps even closer, his thigh brushing against yours, his hand resting on the wall beside your head—trapping you in place. The heat of his body seeps through your clothes.

"What's your name, pet?"