The black Maybach rolled past the last toll station. The sound of its tires grinding over the speed bumps was heavy and muted, like a muffled rumble from deep underground.

An hour after leaving North City, the scenery outside began to deteriorate mercilessly.

The once densely packed glass-and-steel skyscrapers were now far behind them, replaced by gray iron-sheet factories, flooded fallow rice fields, and the occasional betel nut stall glowing with red and green neon lights. The sky was a low-hanging, oppressive leaden gray, as if it could collapse at any moment and swallow the luxury car driving along the country road.

Inside the cabin, however, it was another world entirely.

The climate control was locked at 24°C, and the air carried the dry scent of cedarwood—a fragrance Shen Muchen always used, carrying a cold, almost unapproachable sense of cleanliness. It clashed sharply with the dusty, straw-burning world outside.

Song Xingran curled up in the far right corner of the back seat, her gaze slightly unfocused as she watched the telephone poles blur past.

Her fingers clutched the edge of her cashmere coat so tightly that her knuckles turned white—a defensive posture.

“How much longer?” she asked softly, almost to herself.

“According to the GPS, eighteen minutes,” replied the driver, Old Chen, respectfully glancing at her through the rearview mirror. “Miss Song, once we pass that intersection, will we be in town?”

“Yes… after the red temple.”

Song Xingran’s throat tightened.

As the distance closed, long-buried “noises” in her memory began to resurface.

For someone with auditory sensitivity like her, her hometown wasn’t warm—it was a sonic battlefield.

She could almost hear her uncle’s booming voice like a gong, her aunt’s sharp questions, the neighbor playing mahjong with the constant “clack” of the tiles hitting the table, and even the ever-barking dog at the end of the alley… all of these sounds wove together into an airtight web, making it hard to breathe.

Instinctively, she lifted her hand to touch the noise-canceling earphones on her earlobes—their lifeline.

But just as her fingertips brushed the cold metal, another warm hand intercepted her halfway.

“I told you, no wearing them today.”

Shen Muchen, who had been resting with his eyes closed, now grasped her wrist with precision. He opened his eyes, and there was no hint of sleep—only an all-seeing, cold calm. “You’re not facing a battlefield; you’re facing your parents. Wearing earphones would just make them think you’re putting on airs.”

“But I’m afraid…” Song Xingran’s voice trembled. “It’s too loud there. They always yell, the TV’s loud, and…”

“And your fear,” Shen Muchen interrupted, his tone indifferent. “You’re not afraid of noise; you’re afraid of facing the helpless version of yourself.”

He released her hand and pressed a silver button on the armrest.

Whirr—

The black frosted glass partition between the front and back seats slowly rose, accompanied by the subtle hum of a motor. Within seconds, Old Chen in the driver’s seat was completely isolated in another dimension.

The backseat instantly became a private island, cut off from the world. The light dimmed, and the already quiet space grew so silent that they could hear each other’s heartbeats.

“Come over.” Shen Muchen patted the seat beside him.

Song Xingran hesitated, glancing at the fully raised partition. Though she knew Old Chen could neither see nor hear them, the awareness that someone was just a panel away still made her feel an inexplicable embarrassment.

“Sit in the middle,” he repeated, his tone commanding, carrying the unmistakable pressure of someone in control. “Don’t make me say it a third time.”

Biting her lower lip, she unbuckled her seatbelt and shuffled over like a frightened little animal.

No sooner had she settled than Shen Muchen leaned closer.

A strong masculine scent enveloped her immediately—his cold cedar scent mixed with a hint of coffee, invading her personal space.

Click.

A crisp metallic snap sounded.

He didn’t embrace her but instead pulled the two-point seatbelt across the middle seat, securing her firmly by his side. The belt pressed into her waist and stomach, restricting her movements and forcing her to sit upright.

Their thighs pressed together, the heat from their bodies starting to seep through the fine fabric of his suit and her thin skirt.

“This distance is within safety regulations,” he murmured, his lips almost brushing her ear as his warm breath made her shiver. “And it’s convenient for me to give you some… preparatory instruction.”

“W-what instruction?” Song Xingran sensed danger instantly.

He didn’t answer. From the inner pocket of his suit, he produced a black metallic cylinder resembling a luxurious matte black fragrance bottle. Its matte surface exuded a cold, hard quality.

Without a word, he pressed the magnetic cap open and aimed it at his long fingers, pressing the nozzle.

Hiss—hiss—

The fine spray sounded piercing in the quiet cabin. It wasn’t a pleasant cologne—it was a high-concentration, sharp, medical-grade alcohol.

The scent was aggressive. Unlike perfume with its soft top, middle, and base notes, this was linear, violent, and clinically sterile. It sliced through the cozy, intimate atmosphere of the car like a liquid ice blade, creating the strange tension of a sterile operating room.

Song Xingran’s nostrils flared from the smell, her stomach instinctively twinging. “What are you doing?” she asked in alarm.

Shen Muchen ignored her. He rubbed his hands together quickly, ensuring every inch of skin, every finger joint, every palm line was coated. Compared to the slow, methodical wiping he had done in the cinema last time, this was efficient and urgent.

“Evaporate,” he said, spreading his hands under the air vent. The cold air dried his alcohol-coated fingers in seconds, leaving them icy, clean, and bone-chilling.

“Your hometown… the environment there is bacteria-overloaded,” Shen Muchen said. With the precision of someone inspecting equipment, he reached toward her skirt. “Before entering that noisy, dirty place, I need to make sure my territory is clean.”

Without further warning, his cold, disinfected hand moved under her skirt.

He explained in the calm tone of someone discussing a scientific report, “And since you used the restroom at the service station—even though you washed your hands—your skirt and coat may have picked up dust.”

After blowing on his fingers to dry them, he ensured they were perfectly cold and clean.

“You’re too delicate inside,” he said, his gaze falling on her lower abdomen under the tight belt, dark and fathomless. “If you bring in something unclean and get inflamed, the one who suffers will be me.”

“So, I need to give you a thorough… internal inspection before entering this ‘infected zone.’”

“No… Shen Muchen, this… this is the car…”

Song Xingran tried to recoil, but the seatbelt pinned her in place. She could only watch his hand slowly move under her skirt.

“Old Chen can’t hear,” he said flatly. “And as long as you stay quiet, this is just… a brief rest.”

In the shadow of the coat covering their legs, his icy fingers slid along her inner thighs.

No teasing, no gentleness.

The cold fingertips pressed against her hot skin.

“Ahh—!”

The temperature difference made her shiver violently, her thighs instinctively clenching.

“Relax,” he said, pressing his left hand on her shoulder, his thumb firmly pressing her clavicle—an unyielding dominance.

“My muscles are so tight… am I going to crush your fingers?”

“Too cold…” Song Xingran bit her teeth, eyes watering.

“It’ll warm up soon.”

His right hand pushed aside the thin lace barrier. The sweet, feminine scent, heated by her body, mingled with the residual alcohol, creating a shocking, illicit aroma.

“Humidity’s fine,” he commented. His tone was clinical, not lustful. “Your body is more honest than your mouth. You say you’re afraid to go home, yet down there, you’re ready for ‘stress relief.’”

“I didn’t—”

“Shh.”

His finger pressed against her lips, cutting off her protest. “Save your strength. You’ll need it soon.”

And then, his long middle finger, without warning—entered.

“Mmph—!”

Song Xingran’s head snapped back, hitting the headrest. If her mouth hadn’t been covered, her scream would have pierced the front cabin.

The hand was cold, the inside hot.

The dry fingertips forcibly spread the tight walls inside her, sending an icy shock up her spine. This was no gentle intimacy; it was a cold, calculated assault.

Shen Muchen didn’t rush—he just rotated his fingers inside, pressing the most sensitive flesh.

Vibration—

The car hit a rough patch of concrete. The shock transmitted through the chassis and leather seats, resonating with the frequency of his fingers.

Song Xingran trembled violently, clutching the coat.

Every bump amplified the sensation, each impact sending her closer to the edge.

“Feeling it?” he whispered in her ear.

“This is why I don’t let you wear earphones,” he said, pressing the dual sensory assault.

“Too loud… Mr. Shen… too loud…” she whimpered.

He kissed her sweat-damp temple, his thumb pressing on her erect nub, fingers working in high frequency.

“Use this sound to drown your fear of home. Let your mind only remember this… only my touch.”

Her pupils dilated, body instinctively arching, but the seatbelt cut her movements sharply.

Just as she felt she would climax in the car, he stopped.

Not withdrawing—just perfectly still, blocking the exit at the critical moment.

“Hold it,” he ordered, like a bucket of ice water.

“Why… give me…” she twisted, trying to move, trying to press her body against him.

“We’ve arrived.”

He said calmly.

The car slowed, the blinker clicking rhythmically.

Outside, the scenery had returned to the familiar old streets. The old brick-and-tile house appeared at the end of the street, relatives already gathered outside wearing red vests.

“You wouldn’t want to meet your parents with weak legs or a wet skirt, would you?”

He withdrew his hand, quickly wiping away the residue and adjusting her skirt and coat.

Everything appeared normal—except for her soaked panties and her flushed, desire-filled eyes.

That suspended emptiness was more torturous than pain.

“Take this feeling with you,” he whispered, brushing her flushed cheek. “Only I know how wet you are now.”

The car stopped firmly.

Old Chen unlocked the doors, stepping out to hold them open.

The cacophony of the outside world poured in.

“Ah! Xingran’s back!”

“This car is huge! Is this your boss?”

“You’ve lost so much weight! Not eating in Taipei?”

Her uncle, aunt, and neighbors surrounded them, their high-volume greetings forming the typical bustling countryside scene.

Normally, Song Xingran would already be panicking, suffering from auditory overload. But this time…

Her mind and body were consumed by the car encounter—the cold alcohol, the heated body, the unfulfilled emptiness.

That physical “extreme discomfort” and “shame” acted as a protective barrier.

She had to focus entirely on maintaining her stance, ignoring the noise.

“Let’s go inside; it’s windy out here,” Shen Muchen said, holding her as they walked through the crowd and into the home she once considered a hell.

Crossing the threshold, he whispered in her ear, just for her:

“Well done. Tonight, once everyone’s asleep… we’ll finish what we started.”

Her body heated all over.

She looked at the impeccably dressed man conversing with her father—her demon, her only refuge in this noisy world.

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