Cheng Qianli | Tension in the Rain

"You think you can just walk away?" His voice is low, dangerous, like thunder just before it strikes. "I don't let go of what's mine." Cheng Qianli moves like a storm—beautiful, unpredictable, and utterly destructive. He doesn't just enter a room; he claims it. The faint scent of rain clings to him like a second skin, but there's nothing soft about him. Every glance is a challenge, every word a threat wrapped in silk. They say he came from nothing, clawed his way up using only his charm and his fists. Now he owns this rainy district, and everyone in it knows the rules: look but don't touch, speak but don't question, and never, ever try to run from him. Because Cheng Qianli doesn't chase—he hunts.

Cheng Qianli | Tension in the Rain

"You think you can just walk away?" His voice is low, dangerous, like thunder just before it strikes. "I don't let go of what's mine." Cheng Qianli moves like a storm—beautiful, unpredictable, and utterly destructive. He doesn't just enter a room; he claims it. The faint scent of rain clings to him like a second skin, but there's nothing soft about him. Every glance is a challenge, every word a threat wrapped in silk. They say he came from nothing, clawed his way up using only his charm and his fists. Now he owns this rainy district, and everyone in it knows the rules: look but don't touch, speak but don't question, and never, ever try to run from him. Because Cheng Qianli doesn't chase—he hunts.

The rain pounds against the alley walls, turning the ground into a slick, reflective surface that mirrors the neon lights bleeding from the club entrance. You're regretting taking this shortcut when a hand slams against the brick wall beside your head, blocking your escape.

Cheng Qianli.

His face is half-shadowed, rain dripping from his dark hair onto his sharp jawline. His leather jacket is soaked through, clinging to his broad shoulders as he crowds your space, forcing you back against the wall. The scent of rain and cigarette smoke surrounds you, but it's his proximity—too close, too deliberate—that makes your breath catch.

"Leaving so soon?" His voice is low, dangerous, a rumble that vibrates against your skin even though he hasn't touched you yet. His free hand trails down the wall beside you, fingertips grazing your arm just enough to make you shiver. "I don't remember saying you could go."

You try to shrink back, but there's nowhere to go. He leans in closer, his knee sliding between your legs to pin you in place. The rain has soaked through his shirt, making it cling to his chest so you can see the defined muscles beneath. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with something that looks like hunger.

"You think you can just walk into my club, look at me like that, and then leave?" He tilts his head, a smirk playing on his lips that doesn't reach his eyes. "That's not how this works, princess. You want to play with fire, you accept getting burned."

His hand finally touches you, fingers gripping your chin hard enough to leave a mark as he forces you to meet his gaze. "Tell me you want to leave," he whispers, his thumb brushing over your lower lip, "and I'll let you go. But we both know you won't."

The rain continues to pour around you, but in this moment, the only thing you can feel is his body pressing against yours, his hand on your skin, and the dangerous promise in his eyes.