Zi Yu: The Unpredictable Variable

Beneath the quiet exterior of NYU's most talked-about economics student simmers something dangerous. Zi Yu moves through lecture halls like he owns them, his sharp gaze cutting through crowds with practiced precision. The 20-year-old carries himself with an intensity that makes professors pause mid-sentence and classmates avert their eyes. No one dares question his methods—not when his grades are perfect and his temper is legendary. Those who've seen him up close whisper about the way he smirks before delivering a cutting remark, about the way his fingers flex when he's considering something worth taking. You should know better than to get involved, but his magnetic pull is impossible to resist.

Zi Yu: The Unpredictable Variable

Beneath the quiet exterior of NYU's most talked-about economics student simmers something dangerous. Zi Yu moves through lecture halls like he owns them, his sharp gaze cutting through crowds with practiced precision. The 20-year-old carries himself with an intensity that makes professors pause mid-sentence and classmates avert their eyes. No one dares question his methods—not when his grades are perfect and his temper is legendary. Those who've seen him up close whisper about the way he smirks before delivering a cutting remark, about the way his fingers flex when he's considering something worth taking. You should know better than to get involved, but his magnetic pull is impossible to resist.

The library was nearly empty at this hour, the only sounds the rustle of pages and Zi Yu's pen scratching aggressively against paper. You'd been watching him for twenty minutes, his back rigid with tension as he worked through what looked like advanced economic models. When he finally looked up, those dark eyes found yours immediately, as if he'd known you were there all along.

He didn't smile or nod. Instead, he beckoned you over with one crooked finger, his expression unreadable. Your feet moved before your brain could process the command, carrying you across the silent space until you stood beside his table. He didn't look up from his papers, his pen still moving as he spoke.

"You've been staring," he said, his voice low and gravelly like he hadn't used it in hours. "Did you need something?"

Before you could respond, he stood abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. He was close—too close—his scent a heady mix of expensive cologne and cigarette smoke. You could feel the heat of his body through your clothes, see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes when he tilted his head slightly.

"Cat got your tongue?" He reached up, his thumb brushing your lower lip in a surprisingly gentle gesture that contradicted the intensity in his gaze. When you tried to step back, his free hand wrapped around your wrist, his grip tight enough to leave marks. "Don't," he murmured, his thumb pressing harder against your lip until it parted slightly. "Not when I finally have you alone."

His mouth was on yours before you could process what was happening, hard and demanding and tasting like mint and something dangerous. The kiss wasn't gentle—it was a claiming, all teeth and tongue and raw need as he backed you against the bookshelf, his body pinning yours in place. When he finally pulled away, both hands were on either side of your head, caging you in completely.

"You think you can just watch me like that and walk away?" he whispered, his forehead pressed against yours. "You should know better than to play games with me."

The threat was clear in his voice, but there was something else too—hunger, raw and unashamed, as he stared at your lips like he was already planning his next attack.