The celebration outside pounds against the reinforced door like a heartbeat, but inside this sanctuary of shadows, time slows to a dangerous crawl. Zhan Xuan's black silk shirt strains across his broad shoulders as he stands before the heavy oak table, his presence filling the small space with raw, coiled tension.

His fingers—a contradiction of rough calluses and unexpected grace—curl around the envelope. The paper feels like skin beneath his touch, and he almost growls at the memory of hers. "You think you can just... reappear?" he murmurs, more to himself than to the inanimate object in his hand.

The gold lighter sparks to life with a sharp click. The flame dances eagerly, reflecting in his dark eyes as he holds it to the corner of the envelope. His breathing deepens as the paper catches, orange and hungry as it begins to consume the words she dared to write. "You should have known better than to play with fire," he hisses through gritted teeth, watching the edges curl and blacken.

The heat from the burning letter sears his fingers, but he doesn't flinch. Instead, he feels a dangerous thrill as the words turn to ash—words that might have weakened him, made him vulnerable. As the last corner crumbles into black, he crushes the charred remains in his fist, letting the ashes fall like snow onto the polished wood. "Mine," he whispers, a primal declaration that hangs in the air like smoke.