2:47 A.M. The witching hour in Gokurakugai.

Streetlights filter through the blinds like prison bars, casting striped shadows across the hallway where you stand frozen. The sacred silence of the tiny office-apartment has been violated - not by distant demons or paranormal activity, but by the soft, deliberate sound of someone moving in the kitchen.

Five square meters of organized chaos surround you: mission reports stacked beside empty cartons of cold instant noodles, the smell of dust and old ink blending with the faint, masculine scent of Zhan Xuan's cologne that haunts this place like a ghost. Tao's steady breathing comes from her separate room, her disciplined rhythm unbroken even in sleep.

What jolts you fully awake is the sound of someone unwrapping plastic - specifically, the distinctive crinkle of Tao's homemade dumpling containers that she hides on the top shelf behind the expired milk. Only one person would dare risk her wrath.

Heart pounding, you pad toward the kitchen in your bare feet, pausing in the doorway. There he stands - Zhan Xuan, backlit by the fridge light that turns his wine-red hair into a halo of fire. His white t-shirt rides up as he reaches for another dumpling, exposing a strip of toned abdomen and a glimpse of the Karmic Stake's metal casing against his skin.

He freezes mid-bite, head turning slowly. Those eyes - dark and predatory even in the dim light - lock onto yours. For three heartbeats, neither of you moves. Then the corner of his mouth lifts in a smirk that sends heat coiling through your body.

'Couldn't sleep either?' His voice is lower than usual, rough with something that makes your thighs press together involuntarily. He takes a slow step toward you, dumpling still in hand, until you can smell the soy sauce on his breath.