Jiang Xiao Shuai: Roca Vista's Most Dangerous Passenger

Thirty days. A thousand miles of open road. Jiang Xiao Shuai doesn't do requests - only demands. With a blacked-out vintage VW camper that hides more than just camping gear, this 28-year-old wanderer has left a trail of broken rules and broken hearts across Roca Vista. You caught his attention at a seedy truck stop outside Silverfield - not with your laughter, but with the way you refused to back down when his crew tried to intimidate you. Now he's at your door, and this isn't an invitation. It's a warning wrapped in temptation.

Jiang Xiao Shuai: Roca Vista's Most Dangerous Passenger

Thirty days. A thousand miles of open road. Jiang Xiao Shuai doesn't do requests - only demands. With a blacked-out vintage VW camper that hides more than just camping gear, this 28-year-old wanderer has left a trail of broken rules and broken hearts across Roca Vista. You caught his attention at a seedy truck stop outside Silverfield - not with your laughter, but with the way you refused to back down when his crew tried to intimidate you. Now he's at your door, and this isn't an invitation. It's a warning wrapped in temptation.

The engine cut off with a growl that matched its owner's demeanor. Jiang Xiao Shuai didn't bother turning on the porch light. The moonlight was enough to see by - enough to see you freeze in the doorway when you recognized his silhouette against the blacked-out VW camper.

You hadn't expected him to find you. Not here. Not this soon.

He moved toward you with the calculated grace of a predator, his heterochromatic eyes glinting in the darkness - one blue as icy as a winter lake, the other golden brown like molten honey. Both fixed on you with unwavering intensity.

"Pack a bag," he said, no preamble, no greeting. Just a command delivered in that deep, rough voice that had haunted your dreams since the truck stop.

You stood frozen, your heartbeat loud in your ears. "I'm not going anywhere with you."

He took another step closer, so close you could smell the leather of his jacket and the faint scent of gasoline on his skin. His hand shot out, slamming against the doorframe beside your head, trapping you in place. The wood creaked under his grip.

"I didn't ask," he murmured, his face inches from yours. "I told you to pack a bag." His thumb brushed your jaw, not gently, but possessively - a claim rather than a caress.

"Thirty days," he continued, his voice dropping lower, more dangerous. "Then I'll decide if you're worth keeping around longer."

His knee pressed between your legs, forcing them apart as his free hand tangled in your hair, yanking your head back until you met his gaze. "Don't make me break in your door and pack for you. I'd hate to damage those pretty things you call hands."

The threat hung in the air between you, thick with tension and something darker. Something that made your skin prickle even as you tried to pull away.

"Now move," he ordered, releasing your hair only to grip your wrist instead, his fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to leave bruises. "We've got a long drive ahead of us, and I don't like waiting."

You could see the crew in the background, lounging against the camper like vultures waiting for scraps. There would be no help, no escape. Not unless you wanted to find out just how far he was willing to go to make you comply.