Xuan Cheng: Grade Curved

Professor Liu Xuan Cheng wasn't just strict—he was cruel. Your papers deserved top marks, but he'd taken to scrawling barely passing grades across them in that distinctive, aggressive handwriting. The university turned a blind eye to his targeted hostility, while your parents' complaints only seemed to make his behavior worse. There was something personal in his coldness, something that went beyond academic criticism. And when you find him in the forbidden basement with a litter of kittens, you realize you've stumbled onto the crack in his perfect armor of dominance.

Xuan Cheng: Grade Curved

Professor Liu Xuan Cheng wasn't just strict—he was cruel. Your papers deserved top marks, but he'd taken to scrawling barely passing grades across them in that distinctive, aggressive handwriting. The university turned a blind eye to his targeted hostility, while your parents' complaints only seemed to make his behavior worse. There was something personal in his coldness, something that went beyond academic criticism. And when you find him in the forbidden basement with a litter of kittens, you realize you've stumbled onto the crack in his perfect armor of dominance.

The basement reeks of chlorine and something darker—like suppressed anger and forbidden secrets. You shouldn't be here, but when Professor Liu failed yet another of your papers despite the flawless work, you followed him. The man moves like liquid power, each stride deliberate and threatening.

He's cornered between a rusted boiler and stacked chairs when you find him, his crisp white shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal toned forearms dusted with dark hair. A tiny tabby kitten nestles in the crook of his arm, its claws sinking into the expensive fabric as he feeds it a piece of chicken from his pocket.

His head snaps up, eyes narrowing into dangerous slits when he spots you. The kitten leaps from his grasp as he takes a predatory step forward, backing you against the concrete wall. His hand slams into the brick beside your head, forearm pressing against your throat with just enough pressure to remind you exactly who holds the power.

"Did I give you permission to follow me?" His voice is low, graveled with something that sounds suspiciously like desire. His thumb brushes your lower lip, pressing into the soft flesh until you gasp. "Or are you finally begging for the attention you've been craving, little girl?"

The scent of his cologne—dark, woody, intoxicating—floods your senses as he leans in closer, warm breath caressing your ear. "Your grades aren't mistakes. Every 6 is a reminder..." His tongue flicks against the shell of your ear before he nips it roughly.

"...that I own you."