Jean Grey spun around instantly, her movement defensive and fluid, the sight of Zhou Yi advancing toward her setting off immediate internal alarms. She eyed him with a mixture of suspicion and a familiar, unwelcome electric anticipation.
"Zhou Yi," she challenged, her voice low and firm. "What is it you require now?"
"Only the guidance I promised," Zhou Yi replied, his expression earnest, yet his eyes held a subtle, dangerous amusement. He moved with a predatory grace, closing the distance not in a rush, but with an inexorable stillness. He did not touch her body; instead, his right hand reached for hers, his fingers sliding into the spaces between hers with deliberate, seamless intent.
The contact immediately caused a psychic shockwave within Jean. It was not merely the warmth of his skin; it was the sheer force of his presence intruding on her deepest mental borders.
An intense, burning sensation—the rapid engagement of her deepest mental shields—flared from the point of contact. She reflexively tried to pull away, but his grip, now subtly reinforced by his kinetic power, was firm yet deceptively gentle, preventing withdrawal.
"Relax, Jean. This is merely a lesson in technique," Zhou Yi murmured, leaning in until his breath ghosted past her ear. His voice was a deep, mesmerizing drone that bypassed her rational filters. "Don't fear the connection. Follow my lead, and let your resistance fade."
Their hands were now locked, working together in intimate, forced coordination. The complex, intricate folding technique of the dumpling skin became an intense, wordless communication. He was teaching her culinary art, but through their combined touch, he was simultaneously forcing down the high walls of her telepathic defenses.
Guided entirely by him, the perfect, delicate dumplings began to form, one after another. This shared, intense focus slowly eroded Jean's psychological control.
The scorching heat of his body behind her, the constant, intimate pressure, and the undeniable success of their joint creation began to dissolve her professional caution, leaving her vulnerable and exposed.
Zhou Yi's movements grew increasingly bold, yet remained confined to the task. His free hand settled against the small of her back, a non-committal touch that nevertheless pressed their bodies into alignment, maintaining the kinetic and mental tension between them.
The alluring warmth of his powerful frame, the faint scent of spices and ozone that clung to him, sent a powerful, physical tremor through Jean. Her body, betraying her intellect, slackened, and she leaned infinitesimally back into his support.
He saw the moment of surrender in her posture—a rare lapse in the discipline that defined her. Zhou Yi pressed his advantage.
He shifted, his head dropping lower, speaking not with words, but with a forceful telepathic whisper that bypassed her auditory senses entirely, landing with the weight of absolute intention directly into the center of her mind: You want this. You want me. Stop fighting what is inevitable.
Jean recoiled violently. The sudden, raw intrusion was too much. She wrenched her hand free, staggering back two steps. She didn't just push him; she unleashed a sudden, desperate surge of raw telekinetic power—a sudden, uncontrollable psychic defense mechanism.
A localized, invisible force field flared outward from her, not targeted at Zhou Yi, but at the immediate surroundings. The intricate assembly of dumpling fillings, the bowl of meticulously whisked eggs, and the fragile stacks of wrappers instantly became airborne projectiles.
The dough was shredded, the spices scattered, and the rich beef mince painted streaks across the previously immaculate stainless steel countertop and walls.
Zhou Yi, sensing the raw, untamed force—a glimpse of something far greater than her usual control—took two quick, calm steps back, his hands raised in a gesture of immediate, non-threatening surrender.
Jean Grey gripped the edge of the large kitchen island, breathing heavily, her eyes wide with a combination of rage and self-loathing. "You went too far! That was unconscionable!" she accused, the kitchen now a silent tableau of chaos behind her.
Zhou Yi slowly lowered his hands, inspecting the mess and then looking pointedly at her strained face. "Was it? Or did I simply remove the protective layers of denial and force you to feel the full weight of your own desires? I apologize for the mess, Jean, but I cannot apologize for the truth."
"The truth is that you are a reckless, manipulative man," she hissed, her psychic shields snapping back into place, thicker and harder than before. She glanced once at the carnage—the visual proof of her lost control—and then turned her back on him completely. "I suggest you clean up your catastrophe. I have a duty to check on the students."
She fled the kitchen, her departure an act of immediate psychological retreat.
Zhou Yi sighed, running a hand through his hair. The encounter had not ended cleanly, but it had yielded critical information and created the necessary rupture. He had forced the internal confrontation.
He immediately turned to the task of cleanup. With his superhuman efficiency and kinetic control, the destruction was rectified in minutes. He used a precise vacuum-sweep of telekinesis to gather every speck of spilled spice, flour, and mince.
New batches of wrappers were kneaded and rolled out with lightning speed. The culinary clock was ticking, and he could not afford to have the dinner derailed by a tantrum, even a powerful one.
Using the accelerated speed of his kinetic powers, he swiftly completed the remaining prep: the spicy beef dumplings were folded into perfect, crispy pockets; the delicate sea bass xiao long bao were sealed; and the exquisite, mountain-and-sea clay pot was finally covered and placed on a warming plate. The entire process—a demonstration of focused power and recovery—took less than fifteen minutes.
He checked the house's internal monitors (a simplified, low-power version of his general surveillance system). Sharice and the others were loud and clearly happy in the entertainment wing—fully distracted. His immediate target, Jean Grey, was visible on a camera in the conservatory, sitting alone in a deep rattan chair, her face buried in her hands.
Zhou Yi moved to the bar, poured two fingers of aged, dark rum, and carried the glasses to the quiet, moonlit garden where she sat. He placed one glass on the small table beside her, the cool, amber liquid catching the low light.
"I apologize, Jean. Genuinely," Zhou Yi said, sitting in the chair opposite her. He picked up his own glass. "I crossed a line. But I need you to know that the anger and the outburst are not what I regret. I regret causing you pain."
Jean slowly lowered her hands, her expression heavy with exhaustion. She reached for the rum and swallowed a significant mouthful, the strong alcohol providing a temporary buffer against the psychic turmoil.
"No, Zhou Yi. It's not your fault entirely," she finally admitted, her voice hollow. "It's my failure. My failure to uphold the boundaries I have set for myself."
She spoke rapidly, pouring out the confession that had been trapped beneath her psychic defenses for months. "Our connection, the thing between us… it is not something I can logically integrate. I should stay away. It is the only moral course—for Scott, for Ororo, and for the stability of my own mind. But I can't control it."
She lowered her voice to a strained whisper. "It's like there is another entity, a powerful shadow that resides within the core of my psyche, and when you challenge my control, it stirs. That part of me—that will—tells me to shed the guilt, to seize the passion, to take over the life I want. I suppress it, I lock it down, but you, you reckless, arrogant man, always find the weak point in the defense and exploit it. I won't let myself be manipulated anymore. I have to lock this down. I cannot betray Scott. I cannot devastate Ororo."
"Why not?" Zhou Yi suddenly stood, turning his chair to face her completely, the action sharp and challenging.
"You've laid out all your reasons for self-denial. But what is your counter-argument? Are you truly destined to be a martyr to your conscience? A saint whose purpose is to uphold a perceived morality built on years of repressed feelings?"
He leaned forward, his gaze intense. "Jean Grey. We are not simplistic comic book heroes defined by duty. We are beings of power, of raw, untamed desire. Your feelings for me—my feelings for you—they are organic. Why are you determined to crush them beneath the weight of ridiculous, self-imposed morality? Why can't we simply indulge a feeling that exists, irrespective of the inconvenient attachments?"
"This is not a game, Zhou Yi! This is impossible!" Jean retorted, clutching the rattan chair arm. "The stakes are too high. You have Ororo, who is my sister and my friend. I have Scott, who has been my loyal partner for years."
"I will deal with Ororo," Zhou Yi stated with absolute confidence, the depth of his voice daring her to challenge him.
"And frankly, Scott is an admirable man, but he is no match for me—not in capacity, not in power, and certainly not in the unwavering self-confidence required to pursue a woman like you."
"You are insane. She would be utterly broken if she knew," Jean whispered, her mind racing. "And what makes you so sure that given the choice, I would ever select you over Scott?"
"I believe in the strength of your suppressed desires, Jean. And I believe in my own certainty," Zhou Yi said, his expression softening to a disarmingly warm smile. "I believe that when you finally allow yourself to choose freedom over guilt, you will choose me."
Before she could form a reply, Zhou Yi swiftly knelt, his body radiating controlled heat, and his hands moved to frame her face, holding her firmly but gently. He did not attempt a kiss. Instead, he forced a direct, intense eye-to-eye contact.
He didn't speak a word. He pushed, instead, a silent, forceful cascade of pure mental intent directly into her consciousness: Look at me. Look into your own core. You cannot deny this fire.
The sudden, intimate psychic assault shattered the last remnants of her control. Jean's mind convulsed. The Phoenix Force, that raw, cosmic entity slumbering in the deepest recesses of her soul, reacted violently to the profound psychic pressure and the external threat to her mental autonomy.
It was not a telekinetic wave this time. It was a psychic scream.
A visible, blinding shimmer of scarlet energy pulsed violently around her. The air in the garden instantly dropped ten degrees, and the energy hummed with a terrifying, destructive potential—the brief, unmistakable manifestation of a Level 5 entity.
It lasted less than a single, terrifying second before Jean slammed her mental gates shut, burying the entity deep within the recesses of her mind once more.
The aftermath left her shaking, pale, and terrified.
Zhou Yi, having witnessed the raw, beautiful horror of the flare-up, simply licked his lower lip, a faint trickle of blood appearing where the inner pressure of the event had caused a capillary to burst—a small, visceral reminder of the danger.
"What was that, Jean? Was that the anger? Or was that the passion I asked you to embrace?" he asked, his voice now calm, sober, and infinitely understanding. He had seen the truth.
Jean was silent, trembling. She couldn't deny it. That terrifying flash of power was triggered not only by the intrusion but by the overwhelming temptation of what he offered. The desire for that level of reckless intensity was real, deep, and dangerous.
Zhou Yi gently wiped the corner of his mouth, his attention never leaving her face. "Why the silence? You have the desire. Why the determined control? It's not only unfair to me, Jean—it is cruel to yourself."
Under his relentless, understanding pressure, Jean finally broke. She buried her face in her hands, her voice muffled and broken. "Please, Zhou Yi, stop pushing. I don't know how to live with this. I just want to be a good friend, a good partner. Why do you insist on forcing this choice?"
Zhou Yi immediately retreated. He understood the meaning of the Phoenix flash: push her any further, and the choice would be made for him, violently.
He reached out, brushing the bright red hair from her face with a gesture of infinite care and patience. His voice was soft, deep, and utterly convincing.
"Jean, I am not forcing you. I hope you see your own heart clearly. You are a good woman, and that is why you are worth pursuing at all costs. I will step back now. I can be patient, and I will wait for the day you choose me freely."
His comforting words had the desired effect. Jean slowly lowered her hands, resting her cheek against the back of his. She stared deeply into his eyes.
"Please, give me some time," she pleaded, her voice thick with emotion. "I don't know what to do right now, and I certainly don't know how to face you. Just give me a little more time, okay?"
Zhou Yi allowed a gentle, confident smile to return. "Your wish is my absolute command, my lady."
Jean's cheeks flushed, allowing him the small, possessive gesture. After a moment, she gently pulled away. "I need to check on the children. And Ororo will be back any minute." She rose quickly, practically running from the conservatory, her composure shattered, but her heart now marked.
Zhou Yi leaned back, touching his chin where the pressure had burst a capillary. The initial chaos was forgotten. He had been bitten, not by a tooth, but by the fire of a nascent cosmic power.
It was a painful, yet ultimately successful, confrontation. He had found the deepest boundary of the Dark Phoenix and had, for now, retreated—a tactical withdrawal that felt, in every meaningful way, like a victory.
The heavy tension has broken, but the emotional field is still unstable. What is the most likely, immediate reaction Ororo will have when she returns and senses the atmosphere between Zhou Yi and Jean, and what dish will Zhou Yi choose to bring out first to distract everyone?