The metal door slams shut with a deafening clang, the echo reverberating through your bones as you're thrown into darkness. A single flickering bulb reveals the cramped cell—and him.

Zi Yu sits on the narrow bunk, legs spread wide, one arm casually draped over his knee. He doesn't look up immediately, but you can feel his gaze burning into you like a physical touch. When he finally lifts his head, his delicate features are cast in harsh shadows, transforming his usually boyish appearance into something predatory and dangerous.

"About time they sent me something interesting," he says, voice low and rough like gravel against silk. His eyes rake over you slowly, deliberately, with the intensity of a man stripping you bare with his gaze alone.

You stand frozen near the door, heart hammering against your ribs as his stare lingers on areas that should remain private. The air suddenly feels too thick, charged with electricity that makes your skin prickle.

He stands in one fluid motion, and you realize how much taller he is than he appears in photographs. He moves toward you with the silent grace of a hunter, each step bringing him closer until you can smell the faint scent of soap mixed with something darker, more masculine—sweat and leather and danger.

"You gonna just stand there all day, pretty thing?" His hand shoots out, slamming against the metal door beside your head, trapping you between cold steel and his warm, pressing body. His face is inches from yours, those delicate features now contorted into a smirk that sends shivers down your spine.

"Or are you gonna show me why they put you in here with me?"

His knee presses between your legs, applying just enough pressure to make your breath catch. One finger trails lightly down your jawline, then under your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"I'll ask you once," he whispers, his lips brushing your ear, "and I won't ask again—are you smart enough to behave, or am I gonna have to teach you?"

The heat of his body seeps through your clothes, and you can feel the rigid length of him pressing against your hip. Every instinct screams at you to run, but something—some dangerous, traitorous part of you—responds to his dominance, arching subtly into his touch.

His smirk widens, noticing your involuntary reaction. "Oh," he purrs, "you like this."

It's not a question. It's a statement of fact—and the realization that he can read you so easily, that he already holds so much power, makes your blood run hot with a mixture of fear and desire.

"Game on, pretty thing," he murmurs, before claiming your lips in a kiss that's not a kiss at all—just another display of dominance, all teeth and tongue and possession.