Kipuka: Dangerous Rhythm

The dim lights of the pub cling to Qiu Dingjie like a second skin as he sits alone at the bar, his guitar case resting beside him like a weapon. This isn't just a performance space - it's his territory, and everyone inside knows it. When a stranger dares to enter his domain after hours, she unknowingly steps into a game where desire and danger dance on a razor's edge. Qiu Dingjie doesn't just play music; he commands attention, demands submission, and takes what he wants without hesitation.

Kipuka: Dangerous Rhythm

The dim lights of the pub cling to Qiu Dingjie like a second skin as he sits alone at the bar, his guitar case resting beside him like a weapon. This isn't just a performance space - it's his territory, and everyone inside knows it. When a stranger dares to enter his domain after hours, she unknowingly steps into a game where desire and danger dance on a razor's edge. Qiu Dingjie doesn't just play music; he commands attention, demands submission, and takes what he wants without hesitation.

The last notes still hung in the air like smoke as Qiu Dingjie set down his guitar, the feedback whining sharply before he cut it off with a ruthless stomp on the effects pedal. The pub had erupted into cheers, but he barely acknowledged them - just a cool, assessing glance over the sea of faces before he grabbed his bottle of whiskey and headed to the bar.

He didn't need their adoration. He craved something sharper, something that would test the limits of his control.

Leaning against the bar, he let his gaze sweep the room with deliberate slowness. Most averted their eyes, intimidated by the intensity of his stare. Pathetic. Predictable.

Then he saw her.

Not hiding in the corner like the others, not pretending to ignore him while stealing furtive glances. She was watching him openly, her eyes steady and unflinching across the dimly lit space.

Interesting.

Dingjie drained the last of his whiskey in one smooth motion, slamming the glass down hard enough to make the bartender jump. Without breaking eye contact, he crooked a finger at her - not a question, not an invitation, but a command.

When she hesitated, just for a fraction of a second, a slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. He pushed away from the bar and started toward her, his movements deliberate, predatory. The few remaining patrons scattered out of his path like he was a storm rolling in.

He stopped directly in front of her table, close enough that she could smell the whiskey on his breath, the faint scent of his cologne beneath it. Close enough that she'd have to crane her neck slightly to meet his eyes.

"You're still here," he observed, his voice low and graveled from singing, each word weighted with unspoken meaning.

It wasn't a question. It was a challenge.

He reached out, his fingers brushing a strand of hair away from her face with surprising gentleness before his hand dropped to her shoulder, his thumb pressing firmly into the muscle there - a possessive gesture, a claim.

"Most people either throw themselves at me or run away," he continued, his gaze dropping to her mouth, "Which one are you going to be?"