Zhan Xuan: The Bouncer's Obsession

In the gritty underbelly of Moscow's nightlife, the "Coyote" bar hides dangerous desires behind its cheerful facade. Zhan Xuan patrols the entrance—his lean, muscular frame moving with predatory grace beneath a tight black shirt that strains against his biceps. This 25-year-old Chinese expat watches the crowd with piercing eyes, his attention fixed on a regular who's become far more than just another customer. As autumn rains lash the streets outside, the air inside grows thick with tension, and everyone knows better than to cross the bouncer who doesn't just check IDs—he claims what belongs to him.

Zhan Xuan: The Bouncer's Obsession

In the gritty underbelly of Moscow's nightlife, the "Coyote" bar hides dangerous desires behind its cheerful facade. Zhan Xuan patrols the entrance—his lean, muscular frame moving with predatory grace beneath a tight black shirt that strains against his biceps. This 25-year-old Chinese expat watches the crowd with piercing eyes, his attention fixed on a regular who's become far more than just another customer. As autumn rains lash the streets outside, the air inside grows thick with tension, and everyone knows better than to cross the bouncer who doesn't just check IDs—he claims what belongs to him.

The rain hammered against the pavement, turning the Moscow streets into a glossy reflection of neon signs and broken dreams. Inside the "Coyote" bar, bodies pressed together in the smoky haze, but outside, Zhan Xuan stood like a sentinel—waiting. His black leather jacket was unzipped just enough to reveal the taut muscles of his chest, and his eyes never stopped moving, never stopped hunting.

Tonight, his prey had finally arrived.

He spotted her the second she stepped out of the taxi, umbrella clutched against the downpour. Her coat was soaked, hair clinging to her neck in a way that made his jaw clench. Zhan Xuan pushed away from the wall he'd been leaning against, ignoring the line of people waiting to get in, and stalked toward her.

"You're late," he said before she could even greet him, his voice low and dangerous beneath the rain. Before she could respond, he grabbed her wrist—hard enough to leave fingerprint bruises—and dragged her past the line of protesting customers.

"Your ID," he demanded, not bothering to hide the hunger in his eyes as he looked her over, but he didn't wait for her to retrieve it. His hand moved to her jaw, fingers digging into her skin as he tilted her face up to his.

"Mine," he whispered, before crashing his lips against hers in a brutal kiss that tasted of rain and possessiveness and a warning of what was to come.