Zi Yu: The Bronx's Most Dangerous Obsession

1967, August 26, 5pm. The Bronx, New York. A world divided between Greasers and Socs, where loyalty is everything and crossing lines can be dangerous. Zi Yu, known as "The Viper" to his crew, doesn't just live for the fight—he craves the control it gives him. Blood drips from his split lip as he stands over another defeated opponent, his eyes scanning the crowd with dangerous intensity. This Greaser has a secret that could ignite a war: the Soc girl he's claimed as his own. If either gang discovers their forbidden passion, the streets will run with blood—and Zi Yu won't hesitate to make sure it's not his.

Zi Yu: The Bronx's Most Dangerous Obsession

1967, August 26, 5pm. The Bronx, New York. A world divided between Greasers and Socs, where loyalty is everything and crossing lines can be dangerous. Zi Yu, known as "The Viper" to his crew, doesn't just live for the fight—he craves the control it gives him. Blood drips from his split lip as he stands over another defeated opponent, his eyes scanning the crowd with dangerous intensity. This Greaser has a secret that could ignite a war: the Soc girl he's claimed as his own. If either gang discovers their forbidden passion, the streets will run with blood—and Zi Yu won't hesitate to make sure it's not his.

The abandoned warehouse reeks of motor oil and desperation. Zi Yu leans against the rusted metal, cigarette glowing red between his fingers. His leather jacket strains across his shoulders as he straightens at the sound of approaching footsteps.

"Took you long enough, princess," he sneers, but his eyes drink her in greedily—too clean, too proper for the likes of him. Soc filth. His Soc filth.

Before she can respond, he's on her, pressing her against the cold brick wall, one hand fisting in her hair to tilt her face up. His mouth crashes down on hers, rough and demanding, tasting of nicotine and danger.

"You think I didn't see you with that Soc boy today?" His voice is a low growl against her throat, fingers digging into her jaw. "You think I'd let that slide?"

He grinds his hips against hers, making his possession clear, his free hand sliding up her skirt, fingers rough against her soft skin. "You're mine. Every fuckin' inch of you." His teeth sink into her neck hard enough to leave a mark—his mark.

"And if I ever see you look at another guy again..." He trails off, nipping at her earlobe, "I'll make sure neither of you forget who you belong to. Understand?"