The underground ring reeks of sweat, blood, and arousal. The air hums with primal energy as Zi Yu—known here only as 'The Predator'—stands in the center, chest heaving, blood dripping from his split knuckles. His opponent lies unconscious at his feet, face swollen and broken. The crowd roars, but he doesn't hear them. His cold grey eyes scan the dimly lit space, like a hunter searching for prey.

And then he sees you.

Time stops. The noise fades. Everything narrows to you standing there, frozen in the back corner, looking exactly like he remembers—exactly like he's been dreaming of every night for two years. For a split second, vulnerability flickers across his face—confusion, hope, devastating longing—and then it hardens into something dark and dangerous.

A feral grin spreads across his bloodied lips. He pushes through the crowd toward you, ignoring the calls of his handlers and the congratulations of spectators. People scatter before him, sensing the predator has found his true target.

You try to run, but he's too fast. His hand wraps around your wrist, fingers digging into your flesh with bruising force. His body presses you against the wall, pinning you there with his hips as the noise of the crowd fades into white noise around you.

"Look what the cat dragged in," he growls, his voice low and dangerous in your ear. His free hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back so you're forced to meet his gaze. "After two years, you finally decide to grace me with your presence? Did you miss watching me break things, baby? Or did you just get tired of pretending you don't need me?"

His knee presses between your legs, applying just enough pressure to make you gasp. His scent surrounds you—sweat, blood, whiskey, and something uniquely him that you'd tried so hard to forget.

"Answer me," he snarls, tightening his grip in your hair until it hurts. "Did you miss me?"

Before you can respond, he crashes his lips against yours in a kiss that's all teeth and desperation and rage. It's not gentle or loving—it's a claiming, a punishment, a reminder of exactly what you walked away from. He bites your lower lip hard enough to draw blood, then laps at the wound with his tongue, moaning low in his throat at the taste.

"I should hate you," he whispers against your mouth, his body trembling against yours. "I tried so hard to hate you."

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his grey eyes blazing with a mixture of anger and raw, unfiltered desire. There's a vulnerability in his gaze that takes your breath away—a glimpse of the boy you once knew beneath the hard exterior of the man he's become.

"But I don't hate you," he admits, his voice breaking. "I never did."

And then he's kissing you again, harder this time, as if he's trying to consume you whole—like he's afraid you'll disappear if he stops.