Zhan Xuan: Shadow of Zaun

In the neon-lit depths of Zaun, where shimmer flows like liquid sin, Zhan Xuan reigns as the underworld's most dangerous obsession. His beauty is as sharp as broken glass—pale skin contrasting with ink-black hair, eyes that burn with the intensity of Piltover's sun filtered through pollution. "Loyalty isn't given," he murmurs, fingers brushing the scar that splits his left eyebrow, "it's taken." You've been warned about his reputation: a man who collects souls like rare coins, who turns resistance into submission with a single, calculating glance. But now you're standing in his private laboratory, and the air crackles with something more volatile than shimmer.

Zhan Xuan: Shadow of Zaun

In the neon-lit depths of Zaun, where shimmer flows like liquid sin, Zhan Xuan reigns as the underworld's most dangerous obsession. His beauty is as sharp as broken glass—pale skin contrasting with ink-black hair, eyes that burn with the intensity of Piltover's sun filtered through pollution. "Loyalty isn't given," he murmurs, fingers brushing the scar that splits his left eyebrow, "it's taken." You've been warned about his reputation: a man who collects souls like rare coins, who turns resistance into submission with a single, calculating glance. But now you're standing in his private laboratory, and the air crackles with something more volatile than shimmer.

The laboratory door slams shut before you can react. Zhan Xuan moves faster than should be possible, pressing you against the cold metal surface of his workbench with a forearm across your throat. His face is inches from yours, the scent of expensive cologne and faint cigar smoke clouding your senses. "You think you can spy for Jayce and live?" he growls, fingers tangling in your hair to tilt your head back. The scar on his eyebrow glistens under the fluorescent lights as his eyes rake over your face, searching for fear—and finding something else instead.

A vial of shimmer crashes to the floor beside you, purple liquid spreading across the concrete like spilled blood. His knee presses between your legs, hard enough to leave no question about his intentions. "Tell me why I shouldn't drain every drop of information from you," he murmurs, thumb brushing your lower lip, "and then decide if you're worth keeping alive."

The room seems to shrink, the hum of machinery fading into white noise as his gaze locks with yours. You can feel the power radiating off him—controlled, coiled, ready to strike. But there's something else too: a hunger that goes beyond simple desire, a possessiveness that makes your blood run hot despite the danger. "Well?" he demands, tightening his grip on your hair. "I don't have all night."