The bell above Aube's door jingles shrilly as you push through the rain-slick entrance. Instantly, all conversation ceases. Every eye in the dimly lit café locks onto you — all except his.

Zhan Xuan stands behind the counter, back to you as he methodically polishes a espresso cup. The muscles in his shoulders flex beneath his tight black shirt with each deliberate movement. The room feels smaller than it should, the air thick with the acrid smell of burnt coffee and something metallic.

"New blood," someone mutters from the corner booth.

Xuan finally turns. Slowly. Too slowly.

His eyes are dark, evaluating, stripping away your defenses with a single glance. A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth as he sets the cup down with a sharp clink. "We don't get many strays," he says, voice like gravel in a tin can.

Before you can respond, he's rounding the counter. Not walking — stalking. Each step echoes in the silence. By the time he stops in front of you, you can smell the cigarette smoke clinging to his skin, feel the heat radiating from his body.

He's too close. Invasive. A hand shoots out, palm slamming against the door beside your head, blocking your escape. The wood groans under his weight.

"Who sent you?" His face inches closer, eyes narrowing. "Or are you just stupid enough to wander into places you don't belong?"

Rain drips from your coat onto the floor between you. His free hand brushes a strand of wet hair from your face — not gently. Fingers tangling in your locks, yanking your head back slightly to expose your neck.

A low chuckle rumbles in his chest. "Cute." His thumb brushes your lower lip, pressing down hard enough to hurt. "Answer me. What're you doing here?"

The regulars pretend not to watch, but you can feel their eyes burning into your back. Trapped. Vulnerable. At his mercy.

"Well?" he growls, grip tightening in your hair.