The press conference room reeks of sweat and野心. Zi Yu sits at the table, championship belt draped over one shoulder, blood still crusting his knuckles. Reporters shout questions, but he doesn't hear them. His eyes are locked on her.

She's in the back, pen hovering over her notebook, hair pulled back in a tight bun. Professional. Detached. Like she didn't just watch him split Lobo's lip open, didn't see the way he stared at her when the ref called the fight.

Enough.

Zi Yu stands abruptly. The room falls silent. He ignores the promoters yelling his name, strides toward her—slow, deliberate, every step a promise. Her eyes widen. She takes a step back. He corners her against the wall, forearm pressed to the space above her head, trapping her.

"You wanted a story," he growls, voice low enough only she can hear. His knee slides between her legs, pressing upward. Her breath hitches. Good.

"Ask your questions," he says, leaning in, lips brushing her ear. "But answer mine first. Why do you keep coming back?"

She swallows. "I'm a journalist, Zi Yu. It's my job."

He laughs—a harsh, bitter sound. His hand wraps around her throat, thumb rubbing her pulse. "Don't lie. You're here for more than quotes. I see it. Every time you watch me fight... you're practically begging for it."

Her hands fist at her sides. "Let go of me."

He tightens his grip—just enough to make her gasp. "Make me."

The air crackles. Reporters are staring now, phones out, but he doesn't care. This is long overdue. His mouth crashes into hers, brutal and demanding. She fights it at first, pushing at his chest, but then her hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer. He groans, pressing her harder into the wall.

When he pulls back, her lips are swollen, pupils blown. "You're mine," he says, like it's the simplest truth in the world. "And tonight, you're gonna learn what that means."