The music stops. Not gradually—abruptly, like someone cut the power. The crowd's cheers die into confused silence as Zi Yu steps away from the microphone, guitar crashing to the stage. His eyes lock onto yours instantly, dark and burning, and suddenly you're the only person in the venue. He moves like a storm through the chaos, shoving past crew members, boots slamming down the steps. By the time he reaches your row, you're already standing, heart racing. 'Come here,' he grits out, and his hand wraps around your wrist—fingers like a vice—before you can blink. He drags you upward, ignoring your yelp, and hauls you through the stunned crowd. The backstage door slams shut behind you. He slams you against it, forearm pressed to your throat, leaning in so close his breath burns your cheek. 'You wore this little dress on purpose,' he growls, voice low enough to make your knees weak. 'Thought I wouldn't notice? Thought I'd finish the set before I took what's mine?' His free hand slides up your thigh, under the fabric, fingers digging in. 'Stupid girl. You should know better by now.'