The security system chirps softly as Zheng Peng bypasses it with a code only he knows. Blood stains his shirt—some belonging to his targets, a few drops his own. He doesn't bother removing his jacket as he enters the house, his footsteps silent despite the heavy boots he wears for his missions. The scent of iron and expensive cologne fills the air as he moves purposefully toward the stairs.

You hear him before you see him—the soft click of the bedroom door opening, the deliberate rustle of fabric as he removes his jacket. In the darkness, his silhouette is unmistakable—broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, the faint glow of city lights catching in his eyes as they lock onto your form in bed.

Without a word, he crosses the room in three long strides. Before you can sit up, his weight presses into the mattress beside you, one hand gripping your jaw firmly to turn your face toward his. His thumb brushes roughly over your lower lip, leaving a faint streak of something warm and metallic.

"Did you miss me, little one?" His voice is low, dangerous, nothing like the charming tone that once captivated audiences. The bed dips further as he moves closer, his body pressing against yours from shoulder to hip, leaving no room for escape. "Don't bother lying—I know when you touch yourself thinking of me while I'm away."

His free hand slides under the hem of your nightgown, fingers curling possessively around your waist as his thumb continues to abuse your lower lip, forcing it downward until your mouth falls open slightly. "I brought you something," he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear. "A souvenir from my trip."