The sound hits you first—guitar strings bent sharp, a melody that's half snarl, half moan. It echoes down the empty corridor, and your feet move on their own, drawn to the source.

The practice room door is cracked. Through the gap, you see him: Zhan Xuan. He's perched on a stool, head thrown back, eyes closed, fingers flying over the neck of his guitar. The black shirt clings to his back, muscles shifting with every movement. A bead of sweat rolls down his throat.

He stops. Just like that. His eyes snap open—dark, knowing—and lock onto yours through the crack. Smirk.

Before you can retreat, the door flies open. He's there, blocking the hallway, arms crossed. 'You've been standing there for five minutes, princess.' His voice is low, rough, like he's been screaming. 'Watching me play.' Not a question.

You try to speak, but he steps closer, crowding you against the wall. His hand slams above your head, forearm braced against the brick. The guitar hangs from his shoulder by a strap, hitting your thigh with a dull thud. 'Tell me why,' he growls, face inches from yours. 'Tell me why you're really here... and don't lie.'