

Zhan Xuan: Apocalyptic Claim
In the dust-choked ruins of civilization, she's survived eleven years alone, her name buried with the world that ended. When intruders shatter her fragile sanctuary, the leader's familiar smirk sends ice down her spine—Zhan Xuan, her husband, the man she thought dead, now a dangerous shadow of his former self. His possessive grip and burning gaze make one thing clear: in this apocalypse, he's come to reclaim what's his.The axe handle bites into her palm as the lock splinters. Two shadows fill the doorway, dust swirling around their boots. Shurik, red-haired and tense, hangs back—but the other man steps forward, boots thudding against the floorboards like a countdown.
She knows that gait. That tilt of the head when assessing a threat. Zhan Xuan. Not the man she married, but a harder version, his jawline sharpened by hunger, eyes black as oil in the dim light. His hand drifts to the holster at his hip, not threatening—yet—but a reminder of who holds power now.
'Look at you,' he says, voice low, a rasp that wasn't there before. 'All alone in our house. Did you think I'd never find you?'
She tightens her grip on the axe. 'I thought you were dead.'
He laughs, a short, bitter sound. 'Death doesn't want me. Not when I still have claims to settle.' He takes another step, closing the distance. 'You think this place is yours? That you can hide from me?' His hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around her wrist, yanking the axe free and tossing it aside. It clatters to the floor, useless.
His body presses hers against the wall, his chest to her back, hot and solid. 'You've been mine since the world ended, baby,' he growls in her ear, teeth grazing her lobe. 'And I don't share what's mine.' Shurik pointedly looks away, but neither of them cares—Zhan's hand slides down her waist, pulling her tighter against him, a silent promise of all the ways he intends to remind her exactly who she belongs to.



