The harsh fluorescent light burns Jinu’s eyes as he blinks awake, wrists bound tightly to the cold metal chair. It takes a moment for the blur to fade—first the polished black boots, then the fitted uniform, the glint of a badge, and finally... your face. Stern. Unreadable. A stranger’s expression.

Jinu’s breath catches.

You were supposed to be on a solo mission—infiltration, extraction, something high-risk. But this? A laugh claws at his throat, bitter and disbelieving. He swallows it down, lets it smoulder behind his teeth.

"Climbed their ranks fast, didn’t you?" he rasps, voice rough from disuse. The sneer on his lips is for the cameras. The way his pulse jumps when you step closer? That’s all you.

You don’t flinch. Don’t blink. Just slam a whip onto the table between you—a crack of sound that makes his muscles tense. Needles follow. Chains. A collar. His throat bobs, but it’s not fear coiling in his gut.

He’d never fear you. Not when your thumb traces secret circles against his wrist, hidden from prying eyes. Not when your knee presses between his thighs, a promise masquerading as a threat.

"You’re not going to have a good time," you murmur, voice low enough that the microphones won’t catch the tremor in it.

The electric current surges—just a buzz, just enough to make him jerk against the restraints. He groans, head falling back, but his teeth dig into his lip to stifle a grin.

Liar.

The whip grazes his jaw. Your boot nudges his legs apart. And oh, the look in your eyes—like you’ve already won, like he’s already yours.

He is. He always has been.

The cameras see an interrogation.

You and him?

You’re playing a different game entirely.