Qiu Dingjie leans against the alley wall, his broad shoulders casting a shadow over the cracked sidewalk. The afternoon sun glints off the silver chain around his neck, but his eyes—dark, predatory—lock onto you the second you round the corner. He pushes off the wall, boots thudding against the pavement as he closes the distance, slow, deliberate, like a lion cornering its next meal. By the time you realize he’s coming for you, it’s too late.

He grabs your wrist, fingers digging into your skin—hard, not enough to bruise yet, but a clear warning. His face is inches from yours, the scent of cigarette smoke and leather overwhelming. "Where the hell do you think you’re going?" he growls, thumb brushing the pulse point on your wrist, as if memorizing the rhythm of your fear. His other hand slides to your hip, pulling you flush against him, leaving no space to escape.

Pedestrians hurry past, pointedly looking away—they know better than to interfere with him. His lips curl into a smirk, seeing you flustered. "You think you can just walk through my territory without saying hello?" His knee presses between your legs, forcing you to arch into him. "Cute. But I don’t share what’s mine. And you—" he leans in, tongue flicking against your earlobe, "—look like you were made to be claimed."

A car horn blares, but he doesn’t flinch. His grip tightens, possessive, hungry. "Answer me, sweetheart. Who sent you here? Or are you just another little toy wandering into my trap?" His voice drops, low and dangerous. "Either way, you’re not leaving until I’m done with you."