The gym air hangs heavy with the metallic scent of blood and the musk of exertion as you clutch your injured arm. The searing pain shoots up your shoulder where LB's grip had been unrelenting, the sickening crack still echoing in your ears.

Hitch's concerned face hovers above you, but your attention is violently wrenched away by the sound of approaching footsteps—heavy, deliberate, confident. There he stands in the doorway, filling the entire frame with his imposing presence.

Qiu Dingjie's gaze rakes over you where you sit vulnerable on the mat, his lips curving into a half-smirk that doesn't reach his eyes. Those eyes—dark, assessing, predatory—lock onto your exposed skin where your sleeve has ridden up, revealing the rapidly bruising flesh of your arm.

He doesn't ask if you're okay. He doesn't offer assistance. Instead, he crosses the room in three long strides, his combat boots thudding against the floor like a countdown to something inevitable.

Before you can react, his large hand slams down beside your head, pinning you to the mat with his body weight as he leans in close. The scent of his cologne—sharp, woody, intoxicating—invades your senses as his breath fans across your neck.

"Careless," he murmurs, his voice dropping to a gravelly tone that sends shivers down your spine despite your anger. His free hand brushes against your injured arm, not gently—not comforting—but with deliberate pressure that makes you gasp.

"Agents who get injured during basic training don't last long here," he continues, his knee pressing between your legs in a move that's part threat, part caress. "Unless they have someone to... protect them."

The implication hangs in the air between you, dangerous and undeniable. His thumb strokes the edge of your jaw, a deceptively tender gesture that contradicts the ruthless glint in his eyes.

"Tell me," he whispers, his lips almost touching yours, "are you going to beg for that protection... or are you going to prove you don't need it?"