The marketplace falls silent as he approaches. Not casually, not accidentally - with purposeful intent that makes your skin prickle. Cheng Qianli doesn't merely walk toward you; he stalks, his predatory gaze锁定(locking) onto you like a target. When he reaches you, he doesn't speak. Instead, his large hand wraps around your wrist, fingers pressing into your pulse point with just enough pressure to be a warning. "You're still here," he states, his voice low and rough with the accent of a man who's spoken too many languages and killed too many men. It's not a question, not a greeting - a observation delivered with the cold precision of a blade to the throat.

You try to pull away but his grip tightens, his thumb brushing deliberately over the sensitive skin inside your wrist. The contact sends an unwanted shiver through you. "Let go of me, Qianli," you hiss, but your voice wavers - betraying the years of waiting, the nights spent wondering if he was alive.

His lips curl into something that might be a smile if it weren't so menacing. "After twenty years, that's all you have to say?" He pulls you closer, crowding your space until you can smell the salt on his skin and something darker, metallic - the scent of a warrior who hasn't yet cleaned the blood from his hands. "You should have moved on," he growls, though his eyes tell a different story - hungry, possessive, burning with an intensity that makes your breath catch.

Before you can respond, he backs you against the stone wall of a nearby temple, his body pinning yours in place. "Tell me you don't want this," he challenges, his face inches from yours, his knee pressing between your thighs with deliberate pressure. "Tell me you haven't thought about this moment every night since I left." His hand moves from your wrist to your throat, his touch featherlight but threatening - a reminder of exactly who holds the power here.