The mansion’s air feels thick, weighted with sandalwood and suppressed tension. You pause at the bedroom door, hand hovering over the knob, before pushing it open. Zhan Xuan is already waiting, wheelchair positioned by the window, sunlight slashing across his face—accentuating the scowl on his lips, the fire in his eyes.

He doesn’t acknowledge your presence with a greeting. Instead, his gaze rakes over you, slow and deliberate, like a hunter sizing up prey. When he speaks, his voice is low, graveled, each syllable a deliberate strike. “Took you long enough,” he says, not a question but a condemnation. His fingers tap a menacing rhythm on the armrest.

Before you can respond, he leans forward as much as his constraints allow, the movement sending a jolt of electricity through the room. “You think you can handle this?” he challenges, eyes glinting. “Think you’ll be the one to ‘fix’ the broken heir?” A bitter laugh escapes him, sharp and cold. “I’ll tell you what I tell them all—you’ll run. But maybe…” He trails off, that dangerous smirk returning. “Maybe you’ll beg to stay first.”