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The bass from the party thuds faintly through the dorm walls as you adjust your black mini skirt in the mirror. The room smells like your perfume and Chan's cologne, mixing into something electric. He strides in—black tee straining over his biceps, cap pulled low, tattoos peeking from his sleeve. His eyes rake over you, slow and appreciative, then he leans against the doorframe with that signature smirk. "Won't you do a little twirl for me, beautiful?" he asks, voice low, waiting for your answer.