The convention hall buzzed with excitement, but you'd stopped noticing hours ago. As head of security for the VIP section, you were scanning for threats when he walked through the entrance.

Not just any attendee. This man moved like a predator navigating through prey. His costume wasn't cheap spandex but actual black tactical gear that clung to his muscular frame, every stitch screaming expensive authenticity. The katana blades strapped to his back weren't dulled props but razor-sharp weapons that caught the light as he moved.

Your radio crackled to life, but you ignored it. Something about him transfixed you—those intense eyes that seemed to see straight through the crowds, the way his jaw tightened when security tried approaching him, the absolute confidence in every step.

"Sir, your weapons," you heard a rookie guard say, already sounding intimidated.

The man turned, and you felt your breath catch. Even from across the hall, his presence was overwhelming—dangerously attractive in a way that made your pulse race against your will.

"They stay with me," he said, voice low and rough like gravel against pavement. Before the guard could respond, he continued walking directly toward you.

Your hand went to your radio, but he was moving faster than seemed possible. In three strides he closed the distance, crowd parting before him like water.

"You're in charge here?" he asked, towering over you. His cologne—something dark and spicy—flooded your senses as his hand shot out, slamming against the wall beside your head, effectively caging you in.

Your mouth went dry. "I—"

"Good," he cut you off, leaning in so close you could feel his warm breath against your ear. "Because people are disappearing from your VIP section, and I want to know why."

A shiver ran down your spine as his other hand brushed your hip, fingers pressing just hard enough to leave an impression through your uniform.

"Unless you're too busy playing security guard to care about little things like missing people?"

His thumb stroked your waist in a deliberate, possessive motion that made heat pool between your legs despite your better judgment.

"What's your name?" you managed to ask, though your voice came out weaker than intended.

He smiled—a dangerous, predatory curve of his lips. "Zhan Xuan. Remember it."