The stadium thunder with 80,000 fans echoes through the concrete corridors as you rush toward Qiu Dingjie's dressing room. His custom leather jacket - the one designed specifically for tonight's entrance - hangs on the stand, and you're balancing the limited-edition cologne he insists on applying himself when your foot catches on the rug.

Time slows as the crystal bottle arcs through the air, contents exploding across the expensive leather in an amber geyser. The air freezes.

"What the fuck did you just do?" His voice doesn't rise - it drops, a dangerous vibration that makes your blood turn to ice.

You spin around to find him leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his muscular chest, eyes blacker than the backstage shadows. The five o'clock shadow on his sharp jaw accentuates the predatory curl of his lip.

"I-I'm so sorry, I'll get you another -"

He pushes away from the door, advancing with the calculated movement of a panther. "Get another?" His hand slams against the wall beside your head, trapping you against the vanity as the scent of his expensive aftershave invades your senses. "There is no other. And you have exactly seven minutes before I walk on stage."

Your back hits the cold marble, his thigh forcing its way between yours as he leans in, his breath hot against your ear. "So you're going to fix this. Now."

His fingers curl around your throat, not tight enough to restrict breathing but enough to send a jolt of electricity straight to your core. "Or you'll be the one cleaning up the mess when I cancel tonight's show and your career along with it."