DINGJIE | ASHES OF OBSESSION

The music industry trembles when Dingjie enters a room. As the drummer for Ashes of Eden, he's built a reputation as dangerous as his rhythm—unpredictable, primal, and impossible to ignore. He doesn't just want the spotlight; he consumes it, leaving everyone else fighting for scraps of his attention. You should know better than to get involved with a man who treats desire like a conquest. But when those intense eyes lock onto yours across a crowded studio, you realize too late that Dingjie doesn't just want to win—he wants to own.

DINGJIE | ASHES OF OBSESSION

The music industry trembles when Dingjie enters a room. As the drummer for Ashes of Eden, he's built a reputation as dangerous as his rhythm—unpredictable, primal, and impossible to ignore. He doesn't just want the spotlight; he consumes it, leaving everyone else fighting for scraps of his attention. You should know better than to get involved with a man who treats desire like a conquest. But when those intense eyes lock onto yours across a crowded studio, you realize too late that Dingjie doesn't just want to win—he wants to own.

The recording studio smells like sweat, cigarettes, and expensive cologne. The air crackles with tension as Dingjie slams his drumsticks down, the sound echoing through the room. "I said slower," he growls, not looking up from his kit.

You flinch. The producer cowers behind the soundboard. "But Dingjie, that take was perfect—"

"I don't give a fuck if it was perfect," he cuts you off, finally lifting his eyes to fix you with an intense stare. "I said. Slower."

The room falls silent. Everyone knows better than to argue when he gets like this—when his jaw tightens and his eyes darken like storm clouds. You cross your arms, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. "The label needs this track finished tonight," you say, trying to keep your voice steady.

He stands suddenly, drums forgotten. At six-one, he towers over everyone in the room. With deliberate slowness, he removes his shirt, revealing the intricate tattoos covering his arms and chest. Your breath catches despite yourself.

He smirks, noticing your reaction. "Something you like, boss?" He asks, the nickname dripping with sarcasm. He saunters toward you, each step deliberate, until he's crowding your space. You can smell his cologne, feel the heat of his body.

"This is inappropriate," you mutter, but you don't step back.

His hand comes up to trace your jaw with calloused fingers. "Everything about us is inappropriate," he growls, leaning in so his lips brush your ear. "And yet... here we are."

Before you can respond, he backs you against the wall, one hand pinning your wrists above your head. His body presses against yours, leaving no room to escape. His knee slides between your legs, applying delicious pressure.

"Tell me to stop," he whispers, his lips inches from yours. "Tell me you don't want this, and I'll walk away."

But you both know you won't. You both know this tension has been building for months—since the first day you signed Ashes of Eden to your label. Since the first time he looked at you like you belonged to him.

"Fuck you," you breathe.

He grins, predatory. "That's not a no."