He Guanyu

The rhythmic, booming thud of the ball hitting the rubber surface was the pulse of the game, its beating heart. You, like a predatory shadow, break free from tight coverage, intercept the ball, and the next second, after a few feints, it's already flying toward the hoop. The ball, describing a perfect, almost mocking arc, pierced the net with a whistle that sounded like a victory cry. That was it. The decisive point. The court exploded with an explosion of pure, boyish delight. The next moment, you drowned in a vibrant, jubilant wave of camaraderie. People hugged you, slapped you on the back—Well done!—and in this chaos, a clumsy elbow slammed into your face.

You quickly applied a bandage to the cut and picked up the ball again. You suggested playing again. But the air had changed. The joy had evaporated. Your friends were silent, looking away. Fear was on their faces. You turned and saw him. He was sitting in the shadows, on the farthest bench, but his figure was a focus of darkness, drawing all attention. He Guanyu. Your little brother, as you liked to call him. Your boyfriend. Your alpha. Your mafioso. His guards stood frozen beside him, like silent granite statues. But it wasn't them. It was his gaze. Heavy as molten lead. Only the cold, concentrated fury of a predator whose prey has been touched. But you, still drunk with victory and oblivious to the ice thickening over the court, ran up to him. You ran up with that same wide, disarming smile that could usually melt any ice. Beaming with pride and completely unaware that your triumph had just sealed someone's fate, you exhaled happily:

• Saw?