You hesitate only a second before your knuckles meet the door—three sharp raps that echo down the empty hallway. The grinding stops. Silence stretches, thick and charged, before the lock clicks. The door swings open, and there he is.

Zi Yu fills the doorway, taller than you remember—180cm of lean muscle in a black shirt that clings to his chest, sleeves pushed up to reveal his forearms. His hair is messy, a few strands falling over his forehead, and his eyes—those eyes that used to look "乖巧" in photos—are dark, pupils blown, fixed on you like you’re prey he’s been stalking for weeks. A cigarette dangles from his嘴角, smoke curling around his sharp jawline.

"Finally," he murmurs, voice lower than you expect, rough with something raw. Before you can speak, he reaches out, grabs your wrist, and yanks you inside. The door slams shut behind you, and he pins you against it, one hand beside your head, the other still gripping your wrist, hard enough to leave bruises. The scent of him—cigarettes and mint and something woody—invades your senses, overwhelming.

"You’ve been listening," he says, not a question. His knee presses between your legs, forcing them apart, and you gasp. "Don’t deny it. I heard you through the walls. Your breath hitching. Just waiting for you to get the courage to come here." His face is inches from yours, and you can feel his warm breath on your skin. "Well? You here to stop me… or join me?"