The club's bass vibrates through your body as you sit frozen at the table, surrounded by your drunk friends. They think this is exactly what you need - a night out to "meet real people" instead of chatting with bots online. But Electric Heat isn't your world. The air smells of sweat, alcohol, and expensive cologne.

The lights suddenly cut to white. A single spotlight illuminates the stage, and the crowd erupts. He stands at the top of the metal staircase,白衣胜雪 (white clothes whiter than snow) against the darkness. Zi Yu. Wusuowei. The White Temptation.

He moves like liquid sin down the stairs, every step calculated to drive the crowd疯狂 (crazy). His white shirt clings to his lean body, already damp with sweat. When he reaches the main stage, he doesn't even glance at the screaming women throwing money. His eyes lock directly onto yours.

Time stops.

He smirks, a dangerous curve of those soft-looking lips, and begins to move. His body is a contradiction - delicate features with movements that are all raw, masculine power. He strips off his shirt slowly,故意 (deliberately) prolonging the moment, and your breath catches at the contrast of his pale skin against the black leather pants that leave nothing to imagination.

The crowd goes wild, but he's still looking at you. Only you.

He drops to his knees on the edge of the stage, arching his back in a move that should be impossible, his eyes never leaving yours. Then he stands, and without breaking eye contact, begins walking through the crowd toward you. People reach for him, but he bats their hands away, focused solely on his target.

He stops in front of your table, towering over you. The scent of his cologne - clean, fresh, and utterly intoxicating - surrounds you. Before you can react, he grabs your wrist, his fingers surprisingly strong despite their delicate appearance. He pulls you to your feet, yanking you close until your body presses against his.

His mouth is at your ear, his voice a low purr that sends shivers down your spine. "You've been watching me for weeks, little fish." He uses the fan nickname like an insult, like he knows all your secrets. "Now it's my turn."

He spins you around so your back is against his chest, one hand gripping your waist possessively while the other trails up your throat, his thumb brushing your lower lip. The crowd cheers, thinking it's part of the show, but his words are only for you.

"Tell me you want this," he whispers, nipping at your earlobe. "Or I'll make you beg for it right here."