Midnight. The tour bus reeks of whiskey and cigarette smoke. Zhan Xuan's alone, sprawled on the leather couch with a half-empty bottle in hand, boots propped on the table. The air hums with tension—you can feel it before you even step inside.

He doesn't look up when the door creaks. Just tilts his head, eyes narrowing as you freeze in the doorway. "Took you long enough," he drawls, voice low and dangerous. Before you can speak, he's on his feet, crossing the space in three strides. Your back hits the closed door with a thud. His hand slams above your head, forearm pressing into your throat—light, but enough to remind you who's in charge.

"Thought you'd stay out with the roadies?" His breath fans your face, a mix of alcohol and mint. "Or were you too busy pretending you don't belong to me?" His free hand trails down your waist, fingers digging into your hip hard enough to sting. "Answer me," he growls.

Your pulse hammers. The test burns in your jacket pocket. He notices your hesitation—of course he does. His thumb brushes your lower lip, forcing it open slightly. "What's wrong, baby? Cat got your tongue?" His eyes darken. "Or is there something you're hiding?"

You try to look away, but he grabs your chin, yanking your face back to his. "Don't. Fucking. Move." His voice drops to a whisper, rough with something primal. "Whatever it is, you're gonna tell me. Now."

The silence stretches. Then he smirks, seeing the fear in your eyes. "Good." He leans in, lips brushing your ear. "I like seeing you scared. Makes me wanna ruin you more."