The scent of expensive bourbon clung to Professor Nan Xi like a second skin. Across the glittering ballroom of NYU's President's Gala, Chancellor Evans raised another flute of champagne toward her, his smile sharp enough to cut glass. Nan Xi forced her lips into the cool, detached curve that had become her armor in these academic shark tanks. Twenty minutes, she promised herself. Endure twenty more minutes.
But the room kept spinning. Crystal chandeliers bled into kaleidoscopes, and the drone of finance department accolades – "revolutionary blockchain model…" "tenured before thirty…" – blurred into white noise. When Evans' hand landed possessively on the small of her back, her stomach lurched.
"Excuse me," she murmured, voice miraculously steady despite the whiskey haze. "Air."
She didn't wait for permission. Heels clicking a sharp staccato on marble, she wove through tuxedos and sequined gowns, the whispers trailing her like smoke. Ice Queen. Too young for that chair. Wonder who she slept with…
The heavy fire door to the roof access stairwell groaned shut behind her, swallowing the gala's cacophony. Cool September air, thick with the distant hum of Manhattan, hit her face. She leaned against the gritty concrete wall, dragging in breaths that tasted of exhaust and freedom.
Up. The thought was a lifeline. Higher.
The rooftop door was stiff, protesting with a metallic screech. Then, silence. Wind whipped strands of her meticulously pinned ebony hair loose, kissing the fevered skin of her neck. Below, the city sprawled like a circuit board glittering with treacherous data points. Above, the moon hung, a cold, uncaring eye.
Nan Xi stumbled toward the ledge, gripping the cold parapet. The whiskey, a defiant double she'd downed before Evans could corner her, roared in her veins. The world tilted. She closed her eyes, focusing on the solid chill beneath her palms.
Thump.
Her eyes flew open. Not the wind. A rhythmic scrape of fabric, then a low grunt of effort came from the shadowed corner near the service elevator housing.
Before her whiskey-soaked brain could formulate 'security risk', a figure hauled itself over the rooftop ledge. He moved with a fluid, predatory grace that belied the effort – a dark hoodie, jeans ripped at the knee, and blindingly white sneakers. Not security. Definitely not faculty.
Student. The word registered dimly. A trespasser. On her roof.
He straightened, running a hand through windswept, dark brown hair. Moonlight caught the sharp angle of his jaw, the unsettling stillness in his posture as he scanned the rooftop. His gaze swept past the water towers, past the HVAC units… and locked onto her.
Recognition flared in his widened eyes, quickly shuttered. Not awe. Not fear. Something sharper, calculative. Like he'd found unexpected data in an algorithm.
Annoyance prickled through Nan Xi's intoxication. Who was this kid, invading her sanctuary with those disturbingly intense eyes? Eyes that seemed far older than his years.
"Lost?" Her voice sliced through the night air, colder than the concrete. It was her lecture-hall tone, honed to freeze overeager undergraduates. "This isn't the freshman orientation rooftop party."
A ghost of a smirk touched his lips, gone before it fully formed. "Just avoiding the paparazzi downstairs, Professor Nan." His voice was a low baritone, smoother than the bourbon she'd consumed. He took a step closer. "Didn't realize the VIP escape route was occupied."
"VIP?" Nan Xi scoffed, the sound brittle. The world did another lazy pirouette. She tightened her grip on the parapet. "You look like you wandered off a streetwear runway."
"Xu Lin," he offered, unfazed. "Finance, first year. And you look like you could use less whiskey and more water, Professor." His gaze dropped pointedly to the half-empty tumbler she hadn't realized she was still clutching.
The sheer audacity ignited the fumes inside her. A freshman? Lecturing her? The carefully constructed Ice Queen persona cracked, eroded by exhaustion and alcohol. Rage, white-hot and uncharacteristic, surged. He saw her weakness. He judged it.
"Get out," she hissed, pushing off the parapet. Her heel caught on uneven concrete. The world tilted violently. She threw out a hand, not for the ledge, but instinctively towards the nearest solid thing – him.
Her fingers tangled in the surprisingly fine silk of his black tie. She yanked, not to steady herself, but in pure, drunken defiance. The unexpected force pulled him off balance. He stumbled forward with a surprised grunt, and they both went down in a tangle of limbs and expensive fabric.
Nan Xi landed hard on her back, the breath whooshing out of her. He landed mostly on top of her, catching himself on his elbows just before crushing her. The scent of him flooded her senses – not cheap student cologne, but cedarwood, ozone, and something unnervingly metallic. Cold night air rushed against her exposed collarbones where her gown's strap had slipped.
Disoriented, dazed, the city lights spinning above her like fallen stars, Nan Xi looked up. Moonlight silvered the sharp lines of his face, inches from hers. His eyes, a deep, turbulent brown, held hers, wide with shock, then… something else. An intensity that burned through the whiskey haze.
Her gaze dropped. The fall had pulled his hoodie askew, revealing the stark white collar of a dress shirt beneath. The top button was undone. And there, just visible above the crisp cotton, etched onto the smooth skin where his neck met his shoulder, was a tattoo.
Not a drunken fraternity symbol. Not a trendy geometric design. It was a serpent. Exquisitely detailed, obsidian-dark, coiled as if ready to strike. Its single, ruby-red eye seemed to gleam in the dim light, watching her.
The sight triggered something primal, dislodged a memory buried deep beneath layers of control and trauma. Security footage. A whispered warning from a dying informant. "…viper's mark…" The world dissolved into a kaleidoscope of neon lights, pounding techno, and the terrifyingly familiar silhouette of a man bearing that same mark, holding a gun…
Panic, raw and suffocating, obliterated reason. The whiskey, the fall, the viper on his skin – it all fused into a terrifying, irrational certainty. She wasn't staring at Xu Lin, the arrogant freshman. She was staring at salvation. At the only anchor in her spiraling nightmare.
Her hand, trembling, lifted from where it lay trapped against his chest. Cold fingertips, fueled by adrenaline and despair, brushed the raised lines of the tattoo. The skin was warm, alive. He flinched as if scalded, his breath catching.
Her vision blurred, tears she couldn't control mixing with the smudged remnants of her mascara. The words tore from her throat, ragged and desperate, a plea wrapped in the madness of the moment:
"Hubby… you came for me?"
The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the distant wail of a siren far below and the frantic hammering of her own heart against his chest. Xu Lin froze above her, his dark eyes searching hers, filled not with understanding, but with dawning, profound shock. The ruby eye of the viper seemed to mock them both from the stillness of his skin.
Below, unnoticed by either, the red recording light of a security camera mounted near the access door blinked steadily in the shadows.