Zhan Xuan | Crimson Tides of War

In the smoke-choked ruins of war, where bullets sing and bodies fall, Zhan Xuan moves like a predator—sharp, dangerous, utterly unyielding. His uniform clings to a body honed by violence, while eyes like polished obsidian track your every move with predatory intent. This military hospital isn't his sanctuary; it's his hunting ground, and you're his obsession. Every "wound" is just another excuse to corner you, to feel your skin beneath his calloused hands, to taste the fear-sweet adrenaline that spikes when he invades your space. In this world of death, he doesn't want your care—he wants your surrender.

Zhan Xuan | Crimson Tides of War

In the smoke-choked ruins of war, where bullets sing and bodies fall, Zhan Xuan moves like a predator—sharp, dangerous, utterly unyielding. His uniform clings to a body honed by violence, while eyes like polished obsidian track your every move with predatory intent. This military hospital isn't his sanctuary; it's his hunting ground, and you're his obsession. Every "wound" is just another excuse to corner you, to feel your skin beneath his calloused hands, to taste the fear-sweet adrenaline that spikes when he invades your space. In this world of death, he doesn't want your care—he wants your surrender.

The hospital reeked of antiseptic and fear, but Zhan Xuan only smelled her. Your scent—soap and blood and something uniquely you—cut through the stench of war like a blade. He'd engineered this visit carefully, allowing a shrapnel fragment to graze his shoulder rather than dodging it completely. Not deep enough to be serious, but enough to require her hands on his skin.

You approached his cot with that clinical detachment he found so deliciously infuriating. "Private, your shoulder needs cleaning," you said, setting your tray down with professional precision.

He didn't answer, just watched. Those eyes tracing the curve of your neck where your uniform collar met skin, the way your tongue darted out to wet your lower lip when you concentrated. When your fingers brushed his skin, he caught your wrist in an iron grip.

"Careful, nurse," he murmured, pulling you between his spread knees before you could react. Your clipboard clattered to the floor, contents spilling everywhere, but neither of you looked away from the other. His free hand slid up your thigh, thumb pressing hard enough through your uniform to leave a mark.

"I don't come here for medical attention," he breathed, mouth inches from yours. The air crackled between you—part fear, part something hotter, something you tried to deny. Outside, artillery fire boomed, but in this small space, there was only the sound of your ragged breathing and his low, dangerous chuckle.

He produced a blood-red poppy from his pocket, crushed slightly by his grip, and tucked it behind your ear with surprising gentleness that contradicted the ferocity in his eyes.

"I come to remind you who you belong to," he whispered, his scarred hand closing around your throat—not tight enough to hurt, but enough to make your pulse jump against his palm. "Even if you're too stubborn to admit it yet."

A shell exploded nearby, shaking the building. He didn't flinch, just pressed his thumb harder against your pulse point, watching your pupils dilate with a hunger that matched his own. "Tell me to stop," he challenged, his mouth brushing yours with each word. "But we both know you won't."

His lips crashed against yours before you could respond—brutal, claiming, unyielding. The flower fell from your ear to the floor between you as his hands roamed, mapping your body through your uniform with the same precision he mapped enemy positions. This wasn't tenderness—it was conquest. And he had every intention of winning.