The neon-lit alley pulsed with life beneath the falling night,
desire and delirium tangled in the air like smoke.

Jiang Zhilin stood at the entrance of the nightclub DEEP, where a chaotic chorus of voices echoed down the alleyway. His index finger absentmindedly brushed the fake earring on his upper ear—a hidden microphone feeding every sound back to headquarters.

“Six disappearances in three months. Every trail ends here.”

He lowered the brim of his baseball cap, letting the case file replay in his mind:
Late-night clubgoers vanishing from VIP rooms, surveillance footage stuttering with eerie frame-skips, families of the victims receiving anonymous ransom letters—with no follow-up.

A burst of static crackled in his earpiece—the supervisor’s voice came through, dry and direct:

“Detective Jiang. Your mission is to identify the cargo transport route.
Whether it’s a hidden door, a vehicle manifest, or the sedative compound they’re using—bring it back.”

“…Assuming I survive long enough to find it.”

He snorted softly, cutting off the comms.

Then, without hesitation, he pushed open the iron-studded door—
into the mouth of the dark.

The moment the ornate bronze door gave way, a wave of air-conditioning—
laced with smoke and alcohol—slammed into his face.
A sharp sting struck the back of his neck, like icy fangs piercing through skin.

“Who the hell—?!”
He whipped his arm back, fingers latching onto nothing but a slick scrap of fabric.

The drug hit like a bomb.
His neck throbbed, blood vessels bulging as if molten iron was flooding down his spine and pouring into his limbs.

The world tilted.

The chandelier overhead split into double, triple images.
Thundering EDM merged with a crowd’s drunken laughter, all muffled like sounds drowned underwater.

“Shit…”

He staggered, catching himself against the wall.
His fingertips dug into his palm, desperate to stay conscious—
but his body betrayed him.
Knees buckled, throat slick with metallic sweetness, even his tongue felt like a foreign object, numbed and useless.

Someone bumped into him from behind.
A breath, hot and sticky, brushed his ear:

“Sir, how’s our little welcome drink treating you?”

He tried to twist around, aimed for an elbow strike—
but his core muscles had turned to soaked cotton.
His punch landed like a feeble stroke across the other’s shoulder,
more teasing caress than counterattack.

“Bastard…”

The curse stuck in his throat.
His damp shirt clung to his chest,
and even the fabric scraping against his nipples was amplified a hundredfold by the drug.

Then came the realization—
even his pulse had turned into a rogue siren,
every beat pounding his sanity toward the brink.

Not far away, Shen Yanxing paused mid-pour, tilting his head slightly.

He didn’t know who this man was.
But someone who clearly didn’t belong here, already collapsing before fully stepping through the door—
that was worth a second glance.

He’d planned to watch the show from a distance.
But when their eyes met—those burning, fury-laced eyes—
he raised an eyebrow.

And decided to join the fun.

“Need a hand, sir?”

A low, husky voice brushed against his ear, laced with a hint of amusement.

Jiang Zhilin forced his gaze to focus on the man in front of him.

Tall and lean, shirt sleeves casually rolled up, revealing smooth, defined forearms.
One arm rested on the bar, the other held a cocktail.
Those dark, deep-set eyes glinted with mockery—
as if he’d already seen through everything.

“…Water.”

The man smirked, sliding a glass of ice water his way.
But as Jiang reached out, his fingers trembled, too weak to fully grip the glass.

The stranger’s eyes narrowed slightly, sharp and knowing.

“Looks like someone’s got their eye on you.”

Jiang’s reason clawed for the surface.
He bit down hard on his tongue, hoping pain would snap him awake—
but it was useless.

“You—”

The heat inside him surged, cutting off the rest of his words.

Shen Yanxing had planned to tease a little longer— but in the very next second, the man lunged over the bar and seized his wrist, the heat of his skin searing, his grip fierce and unrelenting.

The sudden touch sent a jolt down his spine. Instinct kicked in—his right hand shot toward his lower back, where a folding knife lay hidden. His fingertips brushed the cold metal— but he stopped himself, forcing his fingers to unclench.

And he let himself be pulled in.

“Take me somewhere.”

He really shouldn’t have gotten involved with someone half out of it. But the heat of that hand against his skin made his back tingle.
Interesting.

Shen Yanxing narrowed his eyes, smile deepening.

“Sure.”

The hallway was dim.
And boiling.
So thick with tension it was nearly unbreathable.

Jiang Zhilin dragged Shen Yanxing with him, his eyes burning with drug-kindled need.

The chemicals scorched through his bloodstream,
tightening the tendons in his neck like coiled wire.
A low growl escaped his throat—animal, strained.

His knees knocked into the wall, again and again, as if trying to pull away,
but his hips bucked forward uncontrollably, pressing their bodies flush.

His lower half ached, rock-hard and feverish.
A dark patch had already bloomed at the front of his pants,
wetness seeping through the fabric—evidence of how far he’d fallen.

Every nerve in his body screamed for contact,
desperate to cling to the cool surface of Shen’s skin.

Ah—I’m losing it…

Want…

Too hot…

Hurts…

“What the fuck did you do to me?!”

The words scraped out through clenched teeth,
his canines piercing into his lower lip.
He swallowed the sharp tang of blood and spit,
but the sticky saliva pooling at the base of his tongue wouldn’t stop.

“Wasn’t me.”

His Adam’s apple shifted with a low laugh,
the tail end of it still caught between his teeth.
His thumb was already pressing into the hollow on the inside of Jiang Zhilin’s wrist—
that small notch where a single push could deaden the entire arm.

But he didn’t press.

Instead, his fingers slid slowly along the bluish vein,
as if measuring the rhythm pulsing underneath.

Shen Yanxing’s lower back hadn’t even found support
when Jiang Zhilin’s knee slid in between his legs, locking him in place.

As the hem of his black shirt wrinkled under the sudden pull,
he twisted, trying to break away—
but Jiang seized his shoulder and slammed him hard against the wall.

His back slammed into the fire hose box—
cold metal jolted up his spine, stealing his breath.

Then came heat—
whiskey-laced breath blasted against the side of his neck.

His right hand had barely lifted half an inch
before Jiang’s left clamped down on his wrist, pinning it above his head.

Fabric rasped.
A button popped with a sharp click.

As the shirt hem was yanked upward in the struggle,
Shen Yanxing suddenly turned his torso,
his right hand—almost incidentally—coming down to cover his side.

A faint, pale scar ran from his V-line into the waistband of his pants,
flickering like a snake’s shadow in the dim light.

He shifted his waist just enough
to let Jiang Zhilin’s body cast a shadow over it,
hiding the mark without a word.

The tip of his nose brushed against an earlobe, each exhale trembling, damp with heat.

Scorching breath scraped across the side of his neck like a blade,
the exhale tinged with crisp wood, a hint of leather, and the sun-warmed scent of skin—
sinking into every opened pore.

Jiang Zhilin’s canines pierced Shen Yanxing’s lower lip first.
His lips were sucked until swollen and numb, saliva spilling from the corner of his mouth before he could swallow,
leaving a silver trail across pale skin.

The biting lost its restraint.
Rust exploded across his tongue,
a guttural moan rolling from his throat like an enraged yet exhilarated wolf.

“Ngh…!”

The pained grunt became fuel.
Jiang Zhilin’s fingers clamped harder around the back of his neck,
thumb pressing against his Adam’s apple,
forcing his head back to take in a deeper, harsher invasion.

His knee shoved Shen Yanxing’s legs apart just as he tried to close them,
his pelvis grinding against the inside of his thigh,
the heat between them seeping through the fabric.

Wet sounds of mingled spit clung heavy in the air.
When Jiang’s tongue scraped the roof of his mouth, Shen’s body jolted,
nails raking bloody lines across his back—
a fleeting resistance that only earned him a more brutal suppression.

Jiang seized his wrist and slammed it against the wall.
Wrist bone met the surface with a muffled thud,
even as lips and tongue tangled deeper,
as if he meant to chew apart every breath that dared escape his throat.

He started to curse, but never got the chance—
the next instant, he was consumed again without mercy.

The air thickened with heat,
their mouths colliding with a feral edge of plunder.

Unfamiliar with surrendering control, Shen’s fingers sought to seize the rhythm—
only to have his wrists caught and pinned hard against the wall.

“…Tch. So eager?”

Shen Yanxing chuckled, voice still lazy, flippant,
as if unaware the balance of power had already shifted.

But in the very next second,
Jiang Zhilin pulled him away from the wall,
dragging him with a grip that allowed no refusal, straight into a shadowed private booth.

Shen’s brows lifted in surprise—yet he didn’t resist.

The moment the door closed,
what little calm remained was already teetering.