Just as Song Xingran’s toes hesitated, about to turn toward the door, the phone in her pocket suddenly let out a teeth-grinding vibration.

In Studio A, which was under absolute silence, the sound was like some dying insect struggling in its final moments—sharp, jarring, and panic-inducing.

She flinched as if burned and hurriedly pulled out her phone.

The moment the screen lit up, Chen Ruolan’s signature message—bristling with fury—cut off every possible retreat like a cold blade.

[Editor-in-Chief Chen]:
Song Xingran! I don’t care whether you kneel or beg—if you don’t get Shen Muchen’s exclusive follow-up recording today, tomorrow’s page will be blank and you can come see me with your head in your hands! And you’re cleaning the toilets this entire week!

Her fingers froze midair. The flush brought on by professional admiration drained instantly from her face, leaving it deathly pale. Cleaning toilets was nothing—being blacklisted in the industry was another matter entirely. Chen Ruolan was infamous in media circles: once she said something, she meant it.

“What’s wrong?”

A low, faintly amused voice came from the control console.

Shen Muchen was still seated in that expensive ergonomic chair, one hand propping up his chin, fingers idly tapping the desk. Beneath the dim glow of the equipment lights, his deep-set eyes watched her calmly.

That gaze was like a hunter observing prey caught in a trap, struggling uselessly in its final moments.

It was as if he had anticipated this predicament all along.

“N-nothing,” Song Xingran said, biting her lower lip as she shoved the phone back into her pocket. Her knuckles turned white from gripping too tightly.

She took a deep breath, as if making a life-altering decision, then slowly—stiffly—moved the foot she had turned toward the door back again.

Shen Muchen raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth lifting almost imperceptibly.

“Not leaving?”

“I…” Her throat felt unbearably dry. She swallowed hard, the soft gulp filling her with renewed embarrassment.
“I was thinking… if it’s convenient for you, Teacher Shen, I’d like to stay and listen to the demo.”

She paused, then added stiffly, as if afraid she sounded like a lovesick nuisance.
“This is for… improving my professional competence.”

“Professional competence.”

Shen Muchen repeated the phrase, rolling it around his tongue with faint, indistinct mockery. He turned his chair to face her fully. As his long legs stretched out, the oppressive presence of someone in a position of absolute authority spread silently through the room.

“Come here.”

He said it again.

This time, it wasn’t an invitation. It was an order.

Song Xingran felt as if an invisible thread were pulling her forward. Step by step, she entered his absolute domain. The closer she got to the console, the stronger the cold cedar scent became—mixed with the faint warmth of metal from the machines—forming a dizzying, almost pheromonal atmosphere.

She stopped three steps away.

“Closer.”

He didn’t even look up. His long fingers slid elegantly over the mixing board, pushing faders with the grace of a pianist.

She had no choice but to take another small step.

Now, she stood less than thirty centimeters from his knees.

She could see the fine weave of his black shirt, the subtle rise and fall of his throat as he breathed.

“Put them on.”

He pointed to the black studio headphones resting nearby.

Top-tier Beyerdynamic monitors. Open-back. Large ear cups, soft fabric padding.
To Song Xingran, they looked less like headphones and more like instruments of execution.

Her hands trembled as she put them on.

The world changed instantly.

The once-silent studio filled with magnified detail—the faint hiss of electrical current, the low hum of the temperature control system, and…

Shen Muchen’s breathing.

Captured by a top-tier U87 microphone, amplified through million-grade preamps, his breath flowed directly into her ears.

Inhale… exhale…

Deep. Steady. Resonant.

Each exchange of air felt like a feather lightly scraping against her eardrums.

Her legs went weak instantly.

As someone hypersensitive to sound, this level of auditory stimulation was catastrophic.

Her cheeks burned. Her heart raced. Her breathing grew unsteady.

“Do you hear it?”

His voice suddenly exploded inside the headphones.

Not through the air—but through electric current, brushing directly against her auditory nerves.

It felt far too intimate. Intimate to the point where it seemed as though he were speaking with his lips against her earlobe.

“H-hear what?” she stammered.

“Your noise.”

Shen Muchen reached out and pressed a red button—the monitor switch.

The next second, another sound flooded her ears.

Ha… huff… ha… mm…

Rapid. Disordered. Nasal. Even the sticky sound of nervous swallowing.

Her own breathing.

Captured. Amplified.

Obscenely intimate.

“Oh my god!” She cried out, instinctively trying to rip off the headphones.

The shame was unbearable. She had never known her breathing sounded like that—like she’d just finished intense physical exertion, or something far more inappropriate.

“Don’t move.”

He didn’t touch her.

He simply rolled his chair forward slightly, forcing her back with sheer presence. His tall shadow swallowed her escape.

“This is what you call ‘professional competence’?”

He gestured toward the chaotic red waveform on the screen.

“Frequency disorder. Unstable airflow. Every inhale disrupts the sound field. Every exhale creates garbage noise.”

He lifted his gaze, eyes dark and merciless.

“Song Xingran. You’re too loud.”

“So loud I can’t work.”

Her eyes reddened instantly. Shame crashed over her like a tide.

“I’m sorry… I—I have rhinitis… I can’t control it…”

“Can’t control it?”

He chuckled softly.

In the headphones, that laugh vibrated low and deep—like a cello’s sustained note.

“Then learn.”

He casually picked up a thick German-language textbook and handed it to her.

“Hold this.”

Confused, she took it.

“Put it here.”

His finger pointed through the air toward her lower abdomen—her diaphragm.

He didn’t touch her.

There were still two centimeters between his fingertip and her shirt.

Yet it felt as if she’d been burned.

Her muscles tightened instinctively.

She obediently pressed the book against her stomach.

“Now, follow my instructions.”

Shen Muchen stood and walked behind her.

He stopped about five centimeters from her back.

Too close.

Though there was no contact, she could clearly feel the heat radiating from him. In the 16°C studio, he was like a living furnace.

“Breathe in. Push the book away with your abdomen.”
“Inhale—”

She tried, but her chest heaved instead. The book barely moved.

“Wrong.”

His voice darkened.

Suddenly, he bent down.

His cheek neared her right ear. His lips hovered mere millimeters from her ear’s curve.

“I said your stomach. Not your chest.”

Warm breath flowed directly into her ear.

Wet. Heated.

Spiraling inward.

Her knees nearly gave out.

“Ah—!”

She jolted, almost dropping the book.

In the headphones, that sharp gasp was captured, amplified—

An unbearably intimate “Ah…”

He didn’t pull away.

His arms moved from either side of her body.

In the mirror, it looked as if he were holding her from behind.

But he wasn’t.

His arms hovered, not touching her waist or arms. His hands aligned over hers—still suspended, one centimeter away.

Heat.

Intense heat radiated from his palms.

That unbearable closeness—almost touching, yet never—was more maddening than actual contact.

“Again.”

He whispered near her ear, his voice overlapping through air and headphones, rattling her soul.

“Inhale. Imagine pushing my hands away.”

His hands weren’t even touching.

The suggestion alone was devastating.

She inhaled deeply.

Her abdomen finally expanded. The book pushed forward—nearing his suspended palm.

At the instant it was about to touch—

His hand withdrew by one millimeter.

Always maintaining that distance.

“Exhale—”

His palm advanced with her breath, as if compressing invisible air.

“Slower… even slower…”

“Control the airflow… don’t shake…”

Hoo… sss…

Her body trembled despite herself.

“Still shaking.”

His voice dropped.

He leaned closer, the tip of his nose brushing past the fine hairs at her nape.

Just hair.

Yet it felt like a spark.

“Mmh…”

Her legs gave out and she fell backward.

But she didn’t fall into his arms.

He stepped back half a pace—perfectly controlled.

She stumbled, barely steadying herself.

The sudden emptiness behind her left her unbearably hollow.

She turned, tearful.

He stood a step away, hands in his pockets, eyes dark and composed.

Watching.

Watching her tremble from wanting to be touched.

A faint smile curved his lips.

“Stand properly.”

His voice was hoarse, yet professional.

“This is the consequence of moving around.”

“One last time.”

“I want the cleanest sound.”

“If there’s noise again…”

He paused, gaze dropping to her slightly parted lips—

“We add another lesson.”

She shuddered.

She didn’t dare imagine what that meant.

“Breathe in—”

Air sank. Abdomen expanded. Book moved smoothly.

“Out—”

Even. Long. Controlled.

No noise. No tremble.

Just pure, clean breath.

Shen Muchen finally nodded.

He unplugged the flash drive from the console.

“This lesson counts as a pass.”

He tossed it lightly. The silver arc landed atop the book in her arms.

“This contains your homework.”

“Listen to it.”

“Listen carefully—to what your breathing is craving.”

He opened the heavy soundproof door. Harsh light flooded in, shattering the charged stillness.

“Starting tomorrow,” he said without turning back,
“formal lessons. Four in total.”

“I’ll correct every irritating flaw you have—one by one.”

Song Xingran clutched the book, the flash drive tight in her hand.

From beginning to end—

He never touched her.

Not once.

Not even her sleeve.

Yet she felt as if she’d been touched everywhere.

Burning. Sticky. Overwhelmed.

This wasn’t an interview.

It was an assault—through the air.

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