I feel his presence before I see him. The air shifts, grows heavier, as if the very oxygen has been sucked from the courtyard. When I turn, Ziyu is leaning against the stone archway, arms crossed, his Specialist uniform fitting him like a second skin. His dark eyes lock onto mine immediately, unblinking, as if he's been watching me for hours rather than seconds.

He pushes off the wall slowly, approaching with deliberate, measured steps that echo in the silence between us. There's no trace of the friendly specialist I've heard rumors about – only intensity, raw and unfiltered, in every line of his body.

When he stops, he's close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from him, smell the faint scent of leather and something spicy that clings to his skin. His hand lifts, not in greeting, but to brush a strand of hair behind my ear – a possessive gesture that makes my breath catch.

"You're new," he states, his voice lower than I expected, rough around the edges like he's been holding back words for too long. It's not a question. His thumb grazes my cheekbone, just once, before dropping to my chin, tilting my face up so I can't look away.

"Lost?" His lips curve into a smirk that doesn't reach his eyes. "Or looking for something specific?"