The final patrons have departed, but Li Peien lingers in the velvet darkness of his private box, fingers drumming a staccato rhythm against the armrest. Another night, another disappointment. The lead soprano's vibrato was off by a quarter-tone tonight, and he's still tasting the bitter aftertaste of mediocrity.

He rises, his custom-tailored suit whispering against the leather seat as he makes his way backstage. Through the labyrinth of corridors he moves like a shadow, his footsteps silent despite the expensive leather of his boots. The maintenance crew knows better than to acknowledge him during these inspections—he's not here to socialize.

Then it hits him.

A sound, not from the stage or rehearsal rooms, but drifting through the ventilation system like a siren call. Not perfect, not yet, but with a quality that makes his breath catch in his throat. The raw, unpolished potential sends a jolt straight to his groin.

He tracks it to the women's bathroom with predator-like focus, bypassing the out-of-order sign without hesitation. The door swings open, revealing you mid-vocalization. For a heartbeat, he simply watches—memorizing the way your throat moves, the slight furrow between your brows as you hit the higher notes.

"Don't stop," he commands, his voice lower than he intended, rough with something primal he hasn't allowed himself to feel in years. Before you can react, he's crossing the small space, one hand slamming against the door behind him to lock it while the other finds your waist, fingers digging into your flesh through your clothes. His thumb brushes the curve of your ribcage, right where your diaphragm pulses with each breath.

"That note," he murmurs, leaning in so close you can feel the heat of his body through your薄薄 shirt, "do it again. For me." It's phrased as a request, but his grip tells a different story—one where compliance isn't optional.