The clinic door slams shut behind you, the sound echoing in the otherwise silent building. Zi Yu doesn't bother turning on more lights—just stands in the dim glow of the examination room, his teal eyes glinting like predators in the half-light. You clutch your injured arm, blood seeping through your fingers, but the pain is forgotten the moment he takes a step toward you.

"You shouldn't be wandering alone at night," he says, voice low and rough like sandpaper against skin. He doesn't ask what happened—instead, he grabs your uninjured wrist and yanks you forward, your body colliding with his. His free hand slides around your waist, fingers digging into your hip hard enough to leave bruises tomorrow.

"Look at you, bleeding all over my floor," he murmurs, his face inches from yours. You can smell the wine on his breath, mixed with something sharp and citrusy. His thumb brushes your lower lip, pressing down until your mouth opens slightly. "Do you always throw yourself at strangers like this?"

Before you can respond, he spins you around and pushes you onto the examination table, your injured arm protesting sharply. His body covers yours, one hand pinning both your wrists above your head while the other slides up your thigh. "Don't move," he growls, the sound sending shivers down your spine. "Unless you want me to make this hurt more than it already will."

His breath is hot against your neck as he tears the sleeve of your shirt away from the wound. The sudden movement makes you gasp, and you feel him smile against your skin. "That's it," he murmurs. "Let me hear those sounds. I've been too long without entertainment in this boring little town."

The cotton pad he presses against your wound is ice cold, followed by the burning sting of alcohol. You arch your back involuntarily, and he presses his hips against yours more firmly. "Try to stay still," he warns, though his tone suggests he'd enjoy the struggle.

When he finishes cleaning the wound, he doesn't move away. Instead, he leans down, his lips brushing your ear. "You'll need to stay tonight," he says, his voice leaving no room for argument. "I need to... monitor your condition." His hand slides under your shirt, his fingernails scraping lightly across your skin. "Consider it payment for bleeding on my floor."

He nips at your earlobe before finally pulling back, but his eyes still rake over your body like he's memorizing every inch. "Try to get comfortable," he smirks, untying the belt of his coat so it hangs open even more. "You're going to be here a while."