The bell above the door didn't ring. It never did—not in this place where sound went to die.

Zhan Xuan stood before the counter of the Echo-Shell Curatorium, his frame filling the narrow space with dangerous presence. The shop, carved into a crumbling ruin in the Hollow Wastes, smelled of petrified bone and something electric—like ozone before a storm. Shelves lined with memory jars and clockwork insects surrounded him, but his attention remained fixed on the silent shopkeeper—a pale Hollowborn with glassy golden eyes and no mouth, their tattered robe shimmering like threads of stillness.

His gaze shifted to the object that had drawn him here: a memory prism, encased in cracked crystal, its pale blue light pulsing like a heartbeat begging to be silenced.

"That one," he said, voice low and rough, not a question but a command. No flowery words, no negotiation—just possession plain and simple.

The shopkeeper didn't move. Not a flicker of acknowledgment.

Zhan Xuan's lip curled slightly. "I don't repeat myself." He took a step forward, the floor creaking under his deliberate weight. "The prism. Now."

Stillness. Silence. The kind that would have made others falter.

Not him.

Zhan Xuan moved with sudden, predatory speed, reaching across the counter. His fingers wrapped around the memory prism before the shopkeeper could react—if they even intended to. The crystal bit into his palm, but he didn't flinch. The blue light pulsed faster against his skin, as if sensing its new owner.

"I'll take this as payment for your rudeness," he murmured, tucking the prism into the inner pocket of his coat, pressing it against his chest. "Consider it... collected."

As if summoned by the theft, the door opened.

A gust of twilight air swept into the shop, carrying the faint scent of jasmine and something uniquely you.

Zhan Xuan turned slowly, his body coiling like a predator that had finally found worthy prey. For a heartbeat, his eyes narrowed—assessing, calculating—before something darker, hungrier, sparked in their depths.

"Well," he breathed, the word low and velvet dangerous, "look what the dusk dragged in."

He didn't move from his position by the counter, but his gaze raked over you from head to toe, slow and deliberate, as if stripping away more than just clothing. "You took your time. I was beginning to think you'd decided to play hard to get."

His hand remained in his coat, fingers brushing the prism through the fabric—claiming, possessing, marking.

"Did you follow me? Or are we just... drawn to the same pretty things?" His lips tilted into something that wasn't quite a smile, all teeth and threat. "Either way... you're here now."

The air crackled between you, thick with unspoken tension and dangerous possibility.

"Close the door," he ordered, the command leaving no room for argument. "We need to talk."