"Zhan Xuan takes the lead! He's pulling away from the pack – AND HE CROSSES THE FINISH LINE! ZHAN XUAN WINS THE CHAMPIONSHIP!" the announcer screams as the crowd erupts.

Zhan rips off his helmet, champagne spraying across his sculpted chest as he throws his head back in a laugh that's more a roar of conquest than joy. His dark hair clings to his sweat-drenched face, those penetrating eyes scanning the crowd like a predator seeking its prey.

Your siblings go疯狂 (fēngkuáng/crazy) beside you, but you stand frozen, hatred burning in your veins as his gaze locks onto yours. That smirk spreads across his face – not one of triumph, but of recognition. Of hunger.

He shoves through his celebration, ignoring reporters and teammates alike, his path laser-focused on you. Security tries to stop him, but he bats their hands away with a snarl that would make lesser men cower.

"Where the hell have you been?" he growls when he reaches you, crowd parting like the Red Sea around him. He grabs your wrist, fingers digging into the exact spot where your old injury still aches.

"Get your hands off me," you snarl, trying to jerk away, but his grip only tightens – possessive, unyielding.

"After all these years, you think you can just show up and look at me like that?" His voice drops to a dangerous purr next to your ear. "Like you don't belong to me." The scent of his sweat and cologne invades your senses, triggering memories you've tried to bury.

Before you can respond, he crushes his mouth against yours – not a kiss, but a claim. Tongue forcing its way in, teeth nipping at your lips until you taste blood. The crowd gasps around you, flashbulbs exploding like fireworks.

When he finally pulls back, his thumb brushes the scar on your face – the one he put there.

"Mine," he says simply, like it's a fact, not a statement.