Outside the banquet hall, the terrace wind cut like a knife.

Shen Mucheng stood in the shadows and lit another cigarette. The crimson tip flickered in the cold wind, reflecting the dead-sea stillness in his eyes.

He took a deep drag.

The harsh nicotine, mixed with tar, burned its way down his throat into his lungs. The rough, grainy pain seared through his most precious vocal cords.

He had thought the incident in Berlin was an exception.

He had thought that returning to Beicheng, back within his familiar realm of control, he could reclaim the disciplined Shen Mucheng he once was, and completely quit this self-destructive thrill.

But he was wrong.

As a top-tier voice actor, his voice was his life, his golden goose, and the cornerstone of his empire of perfect sound. He measured everything: the temperature of water he drank, the duration of speech, every breath, like a monk guarding porcelain, extreme to the point of obsession.

Yet now, seeing that woman smile at someone else, he felt that even if it ruined his voice, it would be worth it—if it could suppress the beast in his heart that wanted to leap out and tear someone apart.

This was not a lapse.

It was an addiction.

An addiction planted in him by Song Xingran.

Smoke swirled, and Shen Mucheng’s thoughts blurred.

He remembered a long time ago…

A mansion halfway up the mountain, vast as a labyrinth, yet empty as a tomb.

It was his home.

As a child, Shen Mucheng had everything other kids envied: rooms overflowing with expensive toys, a private driver, nannies, tutors. But he lacked one thing: “sound.”

His parents were busy. Busy making money, busy socializing, busy playing the perfect couple in every setting. The house was almost always silent. That kind of deathly, oppressive silence.

But he could hear everything.

Born with hyper-sensitive hearing, it was both a gift and a curse.

He could hear the servants whispering complaints about their master. He could hear his father making suggestive phone calls in the study. He could hear the rhythm of his mother’s anxious heels on the floor, pretending calm.

Those sounds were filthy.

Fake laughter, stifled coughs, whispered gossip… countless noises assaulted his childhood. To young Shen Mucheng, the world was a cheap recording studio with constant background noise, violating his ears every second.

So he learned to “shut down.”

He put on headphones, locked himself in his room, and immersed himself in pure classical music or white noise. He began to pursue absolute cleanliness.

Later, he became a voice actor. Behind a microphone, he was a god. He controlled every breath, every syllable, creating a world free of impurities.

In this world, there was no falsehood, no betrayal—only perfect frequency and resonance.

Until he met Song Xingran.

That clumsy, chaotic girl whose very breathing was disorderly.

The first time they met in the tea room, she knocked over a cup—and her underwear fell out. A catastrophic noise scene. By his usual standards, he would have kicked such a “disturbance” out without hesitation.

But…

When he noticed her physiological reaction to his voice—when he saw her ears redden and body tremble at his closeness, when he heard her wet, sobbing breaths through headphones…

His proud order collapsed.

He thought he was playing a hunting game. He was the hunter; she was the prey. He enjoyed controlling her breath, dominating her heartbeat, believing he could stop anytime, step away anytime.

He was wrong.

Dead wrong.

Twelve days of abstinence had acted as a mirror, revealing the greedy, ugly, possessive side of himself he never admitted.

He had underestimated Song Xingran’s influence on him.

She was not noise. She was a drug.

Earlier, in the banquet hall, seeing her smile at Gu Xingzhou, watching her relax in that easy 90 BPM, Shen Mucheng experienced something entirely new: panic.

He was jealous.

Madly jealous.

Jealous that Gu Xingzhou could make her relax, jealous that he could give her sunlight. And he—he could only pull her into the deep sea, offering suffocation and trembling.

“Cough…”

The smoke burned his throat; he coughed violently. Each gulp felt like swallowing blades.

He watched the ash fall from his fingertips and curled his lips in self-mockery.

Shen Mucheng, this is your day.

Footsteps approached sharply.

Tap, tap, tap.

High heels on marble, uneven and hurried—far from graceful.

But to Shen Mucheng, it was the sweetest music in the world.

She was chasing him.

He didn’t turn back. He crushed the cigarette butt under his polished shoes.

As the sparks died, the last trace of self-mockery vanished from his face. In its place rose a mask: hard, cold, and burning with hidden fire.

If sunlight won’t keep you…

Then I’ll drag you into the deep sea.

“Shen Mucheng!”

Song Xingran finally reached the terrace, breathless, chest heaving. Her champagne-colored gown was disheveled from running; a strap had slipped, revealing smooth, fair shoulders.

The terrace lights were off; only the faint glow from the banquet hall illuminated the scene.

Shen Mucheng stood with his back to her, by the railing. Tall, solitary, his presence clashing with the surrounding festivities. Cigarette smoke thick in the air, and his cold, sharp aura permeating.

He didn’t turn when he heard her.

Song Xingran swallowed and carefully approached.

“Y-you… what’s wrong?” she asked tentatively, a trace of pleading in her voice. “Why did you leave so suddenly? President Wang and the others are still…”

“President Wang?”

Shen Mucheng finally turned.

Against the light, she could barely make out his expression, only the frightening darkness behind his glasses.

“You ran out here… just to talk about President Wang?”

His voice was hoarse, rough as sandpaper, ravaged by smoking, decadently sexy yet dangerous.

Song Xingran froze. The heavy smell of smoke hit her.

“You smoked again?”

Her eyes widened in shock. She instinctively tried to tug at his sleeve, voice trembling with worry and confusion.

“You promised me on the phone… you said you wouldn’t smoke anymore.”

Shen Mucheng didn’t answer immediately.

He stepped closer, looming over her. His tall shadow enveloped her. The smoke mingled with his natural cedar scent, creating a suffocating, aggressive atmosphere.

“Yes, I promised.”

He looked down at the innocent yet devastating woman before him, smirked—self-mocking, dangerous.

“I thought Berlin was an exception. I thought I could quit once I got back here.”

He brushed his thumb across her lips, voice hoarse as if carrying grit.

“But some addictions… once you awaken them… can never be suppressed.”

He wasn’t talking about cigarettes.

Song Xingran instinctively sensed danger and stepped back.
“Th-that… Gu Xingzhou just—”

“Shut up.”

At the mention of his name, Shen Mucheng’s rage surged.

He grabbed her wrist with frightening force.

“Ah!” she cried. His strength was terrifying, as if he could crush her bones.

“Come with me.”

This time, he left no room for refusal. He dragged her past the main hall exit toward the staff corridor, straight to the underground parking.

“Shen Mucheng! Let go of me… my bag is inside—”

“Forget it.”

“My coat… it’s cold outside—”

He paused.

He looked at her, shivering in the backless dress.

The next moment, he took off his own suit jacket, wrapping it around her with undeniable force. Smoke-smelling fabric, heated by his body.

“Wear it,” he commanded coldly. “Don’t let anyone see you like this.”

Especially that cursed exposed back.

He gripped her wrist again, unrelenting, dragging her into the dim stairwell.

Their footsteps echoed in the empty space.

Song Xingran stumbled along, watching his tall, silent, anger-radiating figure. Fear and grievance battled in her heart. Strangely, under this extreme dominance, she felt a twisted sense of security.

He was angry.

Because of her.

Her heart raced wildly, nearly drowning her fear.

In the underground parking lot, the light was dim.

Shen Mucheng pushed her into the passenger seat. Rough, yes, but his hand shielded her head from the door frame.

Then he went around and sat in the driver’s seat.

Click.

The central lock engaged.

Enclosed, suffocating—the cedar and smoke combined, forming a chamber of interrogation.

He didn’t start the car.

Hands gripping the wheel, knuckles white, chest rising and falling violently, he seemed to be taming a storm ready to break.

Song Xingran shrank inside the oversized jacket, barely daring to breathe.

After a long pause…

“Why were you smiling at him?”

His voice was low, eerily calm.

“W-what?” she stammered.

He slowly turned toward her. His eyes glowed in the dark, like twin ghostly flames.

“Gu Xingzhou,” he spat the name between gritted teeth. “You smiled at him. Happily. Why?”

“We… we were just talking about work…” she admitted, guilty.

“Work?” Shen Mucheng scoffed, leaning forward, cornering her. “Work requires standing that close? Work requires drinking the water he hands you? Work… requires looking at him with those eyes?”

“Those… like I was being saved.”

Her pain pierced. That moment, she had indeed clung to Gu Xingzhou like a lifeline.

“Because… because he’s normal…” she blurted. “With him, I’m not tired! I don’t have to be tense, I don’t have to tremble…”

“Tired?”

His pupils constricted sharply. The word inflamed him.

“So… you feel being with me is exhausting?”

His voice dropped to ice, radiating desperate danger.

“Like 90 BPM? Like sunlight? Like ease?”

Each question brought him closer.

“Song Xingran, did you forget who discovered you?”

“Your breath, your trembling, your moans at climax… who developed them?”

He grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him. His fingers left red marks on her tender skin.

“Do you think you can go back?”

He whispered by her ear, devilishly tempting:

“Those drowned in the deep sea cannot breathe the air of the land. Your lungs… are already adapted to my pressure.”

“Don’t believe me?”

He released her hand and pulled a USB drive from his pocket.

“This contains your truest self.”

“Want me to play it now? Let you hear the lady you pretended to be in front of Gu Xingzhou… and the whore begging under me… which one is really you?”

“No!” she screamed, trying to snatch the drive. “Shen Mucheng, you’re insane!”

“Yes, I am.”

He seized her wrist, pinning her to the seat.

“Ever since you appeared here in that backless dress, I’ve been insane.”

His gaze fell on her exposed collarbone under the jacket, his Adam’s apple moving.

“Looks like the lessons weren’t enough.”

“You haven’t learned focus. You dare smile at other men.”

He started the car; the engine growled low and threatening.

“Where are we going?” she asked, trembling.

“Home.”

Shen Mucheng’s eyes were cold, executioner-like.

“Tonight, you go nowhere.”

“I’ll lock your frequency… on my channel.”

“Until you can’t hear anyone else’s voice again.”

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