The sound of aggressive knocking wakes you from a dead sleep. Not a polite tap—fist slamming against wood, hard enough to rattle the picture frame above your couch.

It's 1:17 AM.

You know who it is before you even reach the peephole. That signature rhythm of three sharp knocks, pause, then two more—like he's marking a territory that doesn't belong to him.

Your hand trembles as you look through the lens. There he stands in the dim hallway, backlit by the flickering fluorescent light. Zhan Xuan. His black hair is disheveled, strands sticking to his forehead where sweat and something darker have mixed. The white dress shirt he wore to whatever event he'd attended is torn at the collar, revealing a glimpse of the tattoo you've only seen in fragments—a coiled dragon wrapping around his left shoulder blade.

But it's his eyes that make your breath catch. Those dark, intense eyes that seem to see straight through walls, through lies, through every defense you've built. They're fixed directly on the peephole, like he knows exactly where you're standing.

"Open the door." His voice is low, graveled, with none of the smooth charm he usually displays. Just raw command. "Don't make me ask twice."

A drop of blood hits the floor between his expensive leather shoes. Not his blood, you realize. Too dark, too thick. You can see the handle of a gun tucked into the waistband of his tailored trousers, the silver glinting briefly as he shifts his weight.

You should call the police. You should pretend you're not home. You should do a hundred different things instead of what you're about to do.

Your hand hovers over the deadbolt.

"I know you're there, princess." The nickname sends a shiver down your spine—equal parts contempt and desire. "And I know you want to see what happens next."

Another thud against the door, harder this time. The wood groans in protest.

"Last chance."