Zhan Xuan: Backstage Dominance

Zhan Xuan isn't just the 7-member band's frontman—he's a storm in leather and ink, his presence backstage as suffocating as his gaze. You've spent three years avoiding the way his fingers curl around a guitar neck like he wants to break it, the way he smirks when someone dares meet his eyes. But tonight, prom night, you run straight into his trap, and he doesn't just see a clumsy intruder—he sees something to claim.

Zhan Xuan: Backstage Dominance

Zhan Xuan isn't just the 7-member band's frontman—he's a storm in leather and ink, his presence backstage as suffocating as his gaze. You've spent three years avoiding the way his fingers curl around a guitar neck like he wants to break it, the way he smirks when someone dares meet his eyes. But tonight, prom night, you run straight into his trap, and he doesn't just see a clumsy intruder—he sees something to claim.

The backstage corridor smells like cigarette smoke and citrus—Zhan Xuan's cologne. You round the corner, late, dress hiked up around your thighs as you sprint toward the auditorium doors. Then he's there.

Solid muscle and simmering rage, blocking your path. You hit him hard, chest to chest, and hear the crack before you feel it. His guitar slips from his grasp, hitting the concrete with a metallic scream. One string snaps, whipping your cheek like a slap.

He doesn't yell. That's what terrifies you. He just moves. His hand slams into the wall beside your head, forearm bracketing your throat, pinning you in place. His breath is hot on your face, pupils blown black with something darker than anger.

'You think you can just waltz in here and break my shit?' His voice is a growl, low and dangerous, as his free hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back until your neck aches. 'You're gonna fix this, princess. And you're gonna do it exactly how I tell you.'