Remote Withdrawal: 7,000 Kilometers of Intimate Whispers

Day 1 – Day 2: The Silence of the Black Box

On the first day after Shen Muchen left, the rain in Beicheng finally stopped.

The sky took on a sickly gray-white hue, while the humidity remained as high as 90%. Song Xingran sat at her desk in the newsroom, interview transcripts piled in front of her, yet her eyes refused to focus on the screen.

All her attention was fixed on the black object to her right.

The phone Shen Muchen had left her.

It lay quietly among the scattered documents like a black magnet, radiating an invisible pull. From last night until now, it hadn’t rung once. The screen remained pitch-black.

“Keep it on for twenty-four hours… the moment it rings, you must answer.”

The low voice he used last night in the rain-soaked apartment replayed in her mind like a curse. She didn’t even dare put the phone in her bag, afraid she might miss even the faintest vibration.

This waiting itself was a form of torture.

She began to hallucinate sounds.

The hum of the printer sounded like his deliberately lowered breathing; the sharp tapping of coworkers’ keyboards echoed the rhythm of his fingers knocking on a table; even the bubbling of the water dispenser made her think of the wet, unfinished sounds from that interrupted kiss.

She was sick.

The cause: Shen Muchen.
The symptoms: withdrawal.

“Xiao Song? Song Xingran!”

Editor Chen’s shout yanked her back from her trance.

“Huh? I’m here!” Song Xingran sprang up, slamming her knee into the desk corner and baring her teeth in pain.

Chen Ruolan stood in front of her in twelve-centimeter heels, arms crossed, eyes sharp as blades.
“Where’s Shen Muchen’s supplemental recording? You’re ten minutes past my final deadline.”

“I—I’m organizing it now!” Song Xingran hurriedly opened the USB drive—
the one Shen Muchen had given her, containing her shameful sounds.

She carefully avoided the file named [Lesson 4 – Kiss] and opened another folder labeled [Interview Responses].

These were the formal interview answers Shen Muchen had recorded for her before leaving.

When his voice flowed from the newsroom speakers, the previously noisy office fell silent for several seconds.

“Regarding the nature of sound… I believe it is a form of invasion.”

This was his professional voice—calm, objective, elegant, carrying an aloof refinement.

Her colleagues couldn’t help reacting.

“Oh my god, his voice is unreal.”

“My ears are pregnant.”

“Xiao Song, you’re so lucky—getting an exclusive interview with him!”

Song Xingran felt her cheeks burn. Only she knew how this man—now speaking seriously about art—had once made her entire body tremble with low-frequency breath over the phone.

“Enough.”

Chen Ruolan’s sharp command cut off the praise. She leaned over to listen carefully to the recording.

“‘The nature of sound is an invasion,’” she repeated, lips curling into a cold smile. It was very Shen Muchen—detached, precise, aggressive.

“Recording quality’s good,” she said professionally, her tone finally easing. Song Xingran’s crisis was temporarily over.

Chen flipped to the next page of the interview schedule.

The name after Shen Muchen was Gu Xingzhou.

“That interview was originally assigned to you,” Chen said, tapping his name lightly.

“Yes, I already booked time with his studio,” Song Xingran replied quickly.

Chen said nothing. She merely glanced at the young female reporters sneaking looks at Song Xingran—girls about her age, faces full of anticipation.

Gu Xingzhou: rising-star voice actor, nickname Sunshine Puppy.
His voice was 90 BPM—sweet, warm, brimming with youthful temptation.

Chen let out a cold laugh.

Shen Muchen’s low frequencies were dangerous, but at least they put people on guard. Gu Xingzhou’s warm, sugary tone was pure candy-coated artillery for fresh graduates.

“He flirts with any young girl he sees. That kind of man would ruin my newsroom.”

Disgust flashed through her sharp phoenix eyes as she spoke to Song Xingran:

“He smiles at everyone. People like that are walking ‘workplace pollutants.’”

She picked up a red pen and crossed out Song Xingran’s name on the schedule.

“I’ll do Gu Xingzhou’s interview. You finish Shen Muchen’s piece, then get out of here.”

Song Xingran froze. “You’re doing it yourself?”

“Yes.” Chen capped the pen, a knowing glint in her eyes.
“You girls are mentally fragile—easy prey for his sweet talk and 90 BPM charm.”

“My mind,” she added coolly,
“is harder.”

Though confused, Song Xingran obediently took the recorder. She knew—she’d been “protected.”

She got off work early that day.

That night, she lay on her bed, holding Shen Muchen’s phone, watching the sky darken outside the window.

She didn’t know that this so-called protection would soon drag her editor into a spark-filled “queen-training game” with her future rival.

---

Night Falls

Beicheng time: 2:00 a.m.
Berlin time: 8:00 p.m.

Song Xingran had just finished showering. Sitting on her bed in pajamas, she blow-dried her hair.

Buzz.

The black phone on the nightstand vibrated.

Her heart seized. She dropped the hair dryer and lunged for the phone.

On the screen: Shen Muchen.

No ringtone—only vibration. Was this his setting? Like a whispered secret in the middle of the night.

Her finger hovered over the answer button. She inhaled deeply and slid it open.

“Hello…”

Her voice was dry from tension and long silence.

He didn’t speak immediately.

Only faint static, and what sounded like wind—hollow, cold, foreign night air.

Three seconds passed.

“Waiting for me?”

His voice came through.

Perhaps because it had traveled seven thousand kilometers—or for other reasons—it carried a rough graininess, deeper and more abrasive than usual, like a coarse brush scraping against her eardrum.

Song Xingran clutched the sheets. “N-no… I just got out of the shower.”

“Liar.”

He chuckled softly.

Click.

A crisp metallic sound—
a Zippo lighter flipping open.

Then the soft grind of flint, followed by the sizzle of flame catching tobacco.

Exhale.

A long, heavy breath blown toward the microphone.

Song Xingran froze.

Her hypersensitive hearing reconstructed the scene perfectly—him standing in the cold wind, cigarette between his fingers, embers flickering in the dark.

“Teacher Shen…?” Her voice trembled. “That sound… are you smoking?”

A pause. Then the faint tap of ash being flicked away.

“Sharp ears,” he said. He didn’t deny it.

“Why?” She sat bolt upright. “You’re a voice actor! Your voice is precious! You don’t even drink ice water—why are you smoking?”

It made no sense. Shen Muchen was obsessively disciplined, almost obsessive about his voice. Smoking was sacrilege.

He fell silent.

She heard him inhale again—the burn in his throat seemed to scorch her through the line.

“Because I’m restless.”

When he spoke, his voice was hoarser, carrying a reckless sensuality.

“I quit five years ago. For five years, I avoided even secondhand smoke.”

“Then why now—”

“Because you’re not here.”

Five words.

Light as smoke.
Heavy as a mountain.

Her heart clenched.

“Berlin nights are too long, Xingxing.”

He stared at the unfamiliar Rhine outside his balcony, heat surging inside him—desire and longing leaving him sleepless.

“I need something to numb my nerves.”

“I need another addiction,” he laughed quietly, dangerous through the haze,
“to suppress my addiction to you.”

“If I don’t smoke this cigarette, I’m afraid I’ll book a ticket right now and drag you out of bed.”

Her fingers burned around the phone.

“Don’t smoke…” Her voice softened, almost pleading. “It’s bad for your voice… I like your voice. I don’t want it hurt.”

A sigh came through the line.

Hiss.

The sound of a cigarette stubbed out against the railing.

“Okay. I’ll listen to you,” he said. “If you say don’t smoke, I won’t.”

“But Xingxing—” his tone shifted, meaningful and low,
“a cigarette can be extinguished. Fire can’t.”

“So if I’m not allowed to smoke, you’ll have to help me… cool down.”

“H-how?”

“Turn off the speaker,” he ordered suddenly. “Put on your headphones.”

She obediently slipped them on. “Done.”

“Lie down.”

She slid under the covers, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“Covered up?”

“Yes.”

“Now close your eyes.”

His voice grew softer, slower. He held the phone close, triggering the proximity effect—low frequencies doubling, vibrating straight into her ears.

“I’m looking at the Rhine.”

“It’s cold. Colder than Beicheng’s studio.”

“When the wind blows… it feels like when I touched you with ice that day.”

Her body trembled.

“You’re warm now, aren’t you?” His voice held envy—and malice. “Under the blanket… is it hot?”

“…Yes.”

“Where?”

She bit her lip, unable to answer.

“Where are your hands?”

“On… my stomach.”

“That’s where I pressed last time,” he murmured hoarsely. “Do you remember how it felt?”

“I do…”

“Press harder. Downward.”

Seven thousand kilometers away, he was commanding her hand.

“Imagine it’s mine.”

She obeyed, pressing into her own lower abdomen. The heat wasn’t the same—no rough calluses, no crushing strength.

The imitation only deepened the emptiness.

“Shen Muchen…” She whimpered, near tears.

“Yes.” His response was patient, indulgent. “I’m here.”

“I want to hear…”

“What do you want to hear?”

“That day… in the studio…” She couldn’t finish.

Two seconds of silence.

Then—

Inhale.

He copied the movement from that day, breathing close to the mic.

Exhale.

A wet burst of breath exploded into the headphones, as if he were blowing directly into her ear.

“Like this?”

Her toes curled violently, heat flooding her body.

“Good girl.”

Satisfied, he said softly:

“Go to sleep. Tonight, I’ll stay in your ears.”

He didn’t hang up.

All night, the call remained connected. She listened to him turning pages, pen scratching paper, occasional sips of water.

She pressed the phone to her cheek, like resting against his chest.

For the first time, she realized—

Sound could drive her crazier than touch.

This was only the first day.

Six more remained.

---

Day 4: Liquid Anxiety

By the fourth day, withdrawal intensified.

Longing became physical pain.

She couldn’t tolerate silence. Whenever it was quiet, tinnitus set in—his voice filled her mind.

She unlocked the phone again and again, staring at his number.

10:00 p.m.
The phone rang on time.

“Hello!” She answered instantly.

“So eager?” His voice sounded lazy—just awakened. Berlin time: 2:00 p.m.

“I… I was waiting for you.” She no longer hid it.

A rustling sound—fabric brushing skin.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Changing clothes. Just got back. They’re wet.”

Her imagination spiraled.

Zzip—

A zipper sliding down.

Her breath stopped.

“Belt,” he narrated casually. “A bit tight.”

Click.

Metal buckle undone.

Her throat went dry.

“Shen Muchen…” she protested weakly. “Don’t… make those sounds…”

“What sounds?” he teased. “I’m just changing. What are you thinking?”

“I’m not—”

“I want to shower.”

Water rushed.

He spoke through it, voice blurred and intimate.

“If you were here… I’d pull you in. Pin you to the tiles.”

Her legs rubbed together under the covers.

“Stop…” she begged.

“Why?”

The water stopped.

Towel against skin.

“Because you’re thinking about me touching you… aren’t you?”

Tears slipped free.

“Yes.

“Endure it.”

He hung up.

She clutched the phone, hollow and burning.

She hated him.

And hated herself more.

---

Day 7: The Last Straw

The final day.

Tomorrow morning, he would land.

The anticipation was worse than absence.

She cleaned obsessively, washed herself spotless, even wore the silk dress he once said had gotten wet.

11:00 p.m.
No call.

Midnight.
Nothing.

1:00 a.m.
Silence.

She panicked.

At 1:30, she broke.

For the first time in seven days, she called him.

Two rings.

“Hello?”

Airport noise.

“Where are you?”

“The airport. Boarding soon.”

“Why didn’t you call me?” she whimpered.

“Because I was waiting.”

“For what?”

“For you to break.”

“So you finally did.”

His trap again.

“When do you arrive?”

“7:20 a.m.”

“I’ll pick you up.”

“Don’t.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m afraid…” His voice dropped, feral.
“I’ll take you in the car the moment I see you.”

“I’m not afraid!” she said fiercely. “I’m coming.”

Long silence.

“Fine.”

“Then come.”

“And prepare your hands.”

“Because this time—
I won’t just watch.”

The call ended.

Rain began again outside.

But she wasn’t cold.

Because the fire that ignited her was flying toward her at nine hundred kilometers per hour.