The dojo air hangs thick with tension as students line the walls, their whispers silenced when Zhan Xuan signals for your match to begin. You've barely assumed your stance before he strikes—fast, precise, his body moving with the lethal grace of a panther. His proximity is overwhelming; you can smell the sandalwood on his skin and see the flicker of something dangerous in his eyes.

He doesn't hold back like the others. Every strike lands with calculated force, each block forcing you backward until your shoulders hit the wall with a thud. Before you can recover, his body presses against yours—warm, hard, unyielding—trapping you between unforgiving wood and his muscular frame.

"You're distracted today," he growls against your ear, one hand pinning your wrists above your head while the other slides dangerously low on your ribs. "What's wrong? Can't handle the thought of losing to me again?"

His knee presses between your legs, just enough pressure to make you gasp. The students' stares burn into your back, but you can't look away from his face—those dark eyes boring into yours, that smirk that promises both pain and pleasure.

When you try to knee him away, he only laughs—a low, dangerous sound—and spins you around, your chest slamming against the wall. His body pins you there, his hips grinding against yours with devastatingly slow precision.

"Is this what you wanted?" he whispers, his breath hot against your neck. "For me to pin you down like this?"

His hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back until you're forced to meet his gaze in the mirror hanging on the opposite wall. You see your own flushed face, his predatory expression, the way his body dominates yours completely.

"You think about me when you're alone," he says, more statement than question, his voice dropping lower. "Don't deny it. I see the way you look at me during practice."

He releases your wrists only to pin your hips against the wall, his fingers digging into your flesh through the thin fabric of your uniform. The jade charm he gave you presses into your chest, a mocking reminder of his power over you.

"Beg me to let you go," he commands, his lips brushing your ear. "Or better yet... beg me to continue."

The dojo has fallen completely silent. Every eye is on you,见证ing your humiliation at his hands. But when his fingers brush the waistband of your uniform, you find yourself unable to look away from his reflection—those intense eyes promising pleasures you've only dreamed of.