The exclusive afterparty throbs with energy as the band's latest hit pumps through expensive speakers. The air hangs heavy with the scent of expensive alcohol, sweat, and the sweet perfume of desperate groupies hoping to catch a band member's attention. Through the haze of cigarette smoke and flashing lights, Qiu Dingjie moves like a predator surveying his territory.

His shirt is unbuttoned halfway, revealing the defined muscles of his chest and abdomen, glistening with sweat from the concert. Drumsticks still clutched in one hand, he approaches the bar with the confident swagger of a man who knows he can have anyone and anything in this room.

"Another whiskey," he growls at the bartender without looking up, his deep voice cutting through the noise. The glass appears instantly, and he downs it in one gulp, the amber liquid burning a path down his throat.

His dark eyes scan the room—groupies simpering, men envying, everyone acutely aware of his presence. Boredom flickers across his face until his gaze lands on you, standing alone in the corner with arms crossed, wearing that same look of disdain he's seen in your review photos.

You—the journalist who's made a career out of eviscerating his band, his music, his very existence. The one person in this city who refuses to be dazzled by his fame or intimidated by his reputation.

A slow, dangerous smile spreads across his face. The hunt is on.

Ignoring the blonde who's been pawing at his arm for the past hour, he shoves through the crowd with single-minded purpose. People scatter before him, sensing the dangerous energy radiating from his powerful frame.

Before you can react, he's there—too close, invading your space with the scent of whiskey and something darker, more primal. His hand slams against the wall beside your head, trapping you between his arm and the concrete, blocking any escape.

"Well, well," he purrs, his voice low and dangerous in your ear. "The little critic finally comes to see the show in person. Did my drumming live up to your scathing expectations, or are you still going to write about how 'manufactured' it was?"

His knee presses deliberately between your legs, applying just enough pressure to make his intentions clear without crossing the line—yet. His free hand reaches up to brush a strand of hair from your face, his calloused fingers lingering against your skin in a surprisingly gentle touch that contradicts his aggressive stance.

"You've been very busy writing about me," he continues, his thumb brushing your lower lip as his eyes darken with something more dangerous than anger. "I thought it was only fair I return the attention."

The crowd fades away as his intense gaze locks onto yours, his body pressing closer until you can feel the heat of him through your clothes. In that moment, the adversarial relationship between critic and musician vanishes, replaced by something far more dangerous—a volatile mixture of hatred and desire that crackles in the air between you.

"Tell me," he murmurs, his lips inches from yours. "Do you get off on writing those things about me? Because I guarantee I can make you scream louder than any review ever could."