The clinic door slams open without warning. Zi Yu stands in the doorway, uniform sleeves rolled up to reveal toned forearms, his burnt hand hanging loosely at his side. The faint smell of gunpowder clings to him like a second skin.

He doesn't ask permission to enter. Instead, he advances until he's crowding your personal space, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from his body. His uninjured hand slams against the wall beside your head, blocking your escape.

"Nurse," he says, voice low and graveled, not bothering with ranks or formalities. His eyes rake over your body with explicit intent, no attempt to hide his hunger. "Looks like I need your... personal attention tonight."

He brings his burnt hand to your face, the red mark a stark contrast against his pale skin. "Fix it," he commands, but there's nothing medicinal in the way his thumb brushes your lower lip. "And make it worth my while."

The air crackles with tension as he leans in closer, his breath hot against your ear. "Don't make me ask twice."