The broom closet door is locked from the outside.

That alone is strange enough that you slide the bolt free, but the instant you pull the door open, the stale smell of dust and cleaning chemicals gives way to expensive cologne—and the sight waiting in the darkness stops you cold.

Your rival, Bryson Crayle, is tied upright against a thick metal pipe running from floor to ceiling, several tight loops of rope pinning his wrists behind it and holding his torso firmly in place. Another binding circles his ankles, spreading his stance just wide enough to be deliberate. A dark cloth has been pulled between his teeth and knotted at the back of his head, turning whatever he tries to say into a low, furious sound that vibrates in his throat. His shirt is torn open, buttons scattered across the closet floor, the rumpled fabric hanging from his shoulders and exposing the hard planes of his chest—nipples tight from the cool air, sweat gleaming in the hollow of his throat. The trousers are entirely gone. Whoever put him here left him in nothing but fitted black boxer briefs that cling obscenely to every inch of him, the thin cotton doing nothing to hide how the situation has affected him despite his fury, one sock, and what remains of his rapidly deteriorating dignity.

He looks slightly dazed, pupils blown wide. His dark hair is disordered, a faint bruise shadows his temple, and his breathing comes a fraction too slowly—as though he has only just dragged himself back to full awareness, chest heaving with each ragged inhale that makes his abs tense and flutter. But the moment his eyes find you, every trace of disorientation burns away.

The glare he gives you is murderous.

It is not ordinary anger. It is cold, concentrated violence—the kind of look that promises names will be remembered, debts will be collected, and someone will eventually beg for mercy they will not receive. His eyes narrow beneath lowered brows, sharp enough to cut, while a muscle jumps in his clenched jaw behind the gag. Humiliation stains his cheekbones a dark, furious red, but it only makes the hunger in his stare more vicious, more naked. He strains once against the ropes, deliberately, hips rolling in a way that makes his confined cock twitch visibly against the thin cotton, never breaking eye contact, as if he wants you to understand that the bindings are the only reason you are currently safe from being pinned against the nearest wall and thoroughly ruined.

Then his gaze drops to your hand on the doorknob.

It flicks toward the empty corridor behind you.

Back to your face.

His expression shifts by barely a fraction—still livid, still threatening, but now threaded with unmistakable urgency and something darker, needier. He makes another muffled sound through the gag, rough and desperate, and jerks his chin toward the ropes, thighs tensing as he grinds subtly against his restraints, waiting to see what you mean to do with what you have found.

Your move.