The plaza in front of the Voice Realm Culture building was choked with suffocating, murky air. Under the leaden sky, the air pressure hung heavy like a soaking-wet rag pressed over everyone’s nose and mouth. Dozens of media outlets had clogged the revolving doors completely. Camera lenses, like the hungry compound eyes of insects, were locked onto the exit. The air was thick with the acrid scent of overheating electronic equipment and the damp, stifling heat rising from a crowd fueled by excitement and frantic jostling.

“He’s coming out! Shen Muchen is coming out!” Following a piercing shriek, the crowd erupted into a boil.

Shen Muchen stepped out of the revolving doors. He wore a sharp, bespoke black suit, his face covered by a black mask that revealed only his deep, icy-cold brows and eyes. His posture was upright, his gait composed. Even at the center of a vortex of public opinion, even having lost his voice, the oppressive aura of a man in power radiating from him still made people fear stepping out of line.

But he could not speak. In the eyes of the bloodthirsty media, this was an “admission of guilt,” “defensiveness,” and the “weakness” of a lamb waiting for the slaughter.

The most terrifying thing was the noise. “Mr. Shen! Is it true that you have permanently lost your voice?” “There are rumors that you embezzled funds to support a private club—is that true?” “Mr. Shen! Please respond!”

Microphones were thrust almost into his face. The reporters’ questions were sharp, like unpolished metal scraping against glass. More lethal were the camera shutters. Countless flashes exploded crazily before his eyes. Each mechanical click accompanying the flash was amplified into a sharp lash against Shen Muchen’s hypersensitive eardrums. It was a double torture of sight and sound.

Shen Muchen stopped. The fingers at his sides turned slightly white, his brow furrowed. A physiological wave of nausea rose in his throat. He wanted to close his eyes and cover his ears, but he couldn’t. He was Shen Muchen; he had to stand tall—like a martyr’s statue surrounded by a crowd, unable to utter a sound.

Just as the scene was about to spiral out of control and the wall of security guards was on the verge of being breached, someone forced their way into the inner circle. It was a young woman in a beige professional suit. She didn’t stand behind Shen Muchen seeking shelter; instead, she stepped half a stride in front of him. Like a slender yet indestructible barrier, she forcefully blocked the microphones that were about to poke Shen Muchen in the eyes.

It was Song Xingran.

“I am a special correspondent for Star Weekly, Song Xingran.” She held a microphone snatched from another outlet, her voice projecting through the speaker. Though she tried to maintain her composure, if one listened closely, her voice carried a trace of an imperceptible tremor. It was the involuntary tightening of vocal cord muscles that happens when a person is under extreme tension.

A bizarre silence descended on the scene for a fleeting moment. The chaotic, machine-gun-like barrage of piercing noise was interrupted by this sudden feminine voice.

“I am also the writer of today’s report—Exclusive Investigation: Shen Muchen’s ‘Indulgence’.” She took a deep breath, forcing herself to stare directly into the greedy lenses.

“Ms. Song!” A bespectacled veteran financial reporter immediately seized on a loophole, aggressive and spitting, his saliva almost landing on her face. “There are rumors that you and Mr. Shen are living together. By publishing this article, which looks like a whitewash, are you not letting personal bias override your professional duty? Is there any journalistic ethics left in writing a report as a ‘girlfriend’?”

The entire crowd erupted in murmurs. Lenses aimed frantically at Song Xingran, waiting for this young girl to panic and crumble.

Shen Muchen’s eyes turned icy. He subconsciously wanted to reach out and pull her behind him, but Song Xingran did not retreat. Her back went rigid for a split second, then she stood even straighter.

She turned her head and gave Shen Muchen an incredibly swift look. Her eyes were still shimmering with the moisture of terror, yet they were filled with stubbornness: Don’t move, leave it to me. She then turned back to the reporter. “Senior, before you question my journalistic ethics, have you ever heard a real ‘voice’?”

She pulled a thick stack of documents from her folder. Without a moment’s hesitation, she slammed the stack onto the makeshift podium. Clap. A dull, heavy sound. To Shen Muchen, it was sweeter than any symphony.

“In here are the records of every transfer Mr. Shen has made in his personal name to the ‘Hearing-Impaired Children’s Foundation’ over the past five years; the donation certificates for thirty-six libraries in rural primary schools; and the two thousand hours of high-quality audiobook files he recorded for the ‘Glimmer Project’ for elderly people living alone, entirely free of charge.”

Song Xingran stepped forward. Her hands were shaking, making the microphone in her grip sway slightly. But her speed of speech grew faster, her logic clearer, as if she were using every ounce of her strength to fire these facts at the crowd like bullets.

“Data doesn’t lie. Bank statements don’t lie. And the smiling faces of those children hearing the world for the first time don’t lie, either.”

“You ask me about objectivity?” She let out a cold laugh, her eyes reddening with excitement. “For this report, I spent two weeks visiting three hospitals and five schools in person, and interviewed twelve witnesses. Yet all of you, relying on nothing but a blurry paparazzi photo, have branded a professional dedicated to sound-based charity as a man with a ‘chaotic private life’ and a history of ’embezzlement’.”

She pointed at the reporter, her voice raspy yet filled with power: “Tell me, everyone here—who exactly is biased? Who is creating noise? And who is it that has disgraced the profession of journalism?”

The scene fell into a deathly silence. The veteran reporter’s face turned from green to white; he couldn’t utter a single word.

Song Xingran didn’t stop. She felt her legs going weak and cold sweat soaking her shirt. But she stood guard before her territory like a small beast protecting its meal.

“The reason Mr. Shen isn’t explaining himself is that he disdains to do so. His voice is precious; it is meant to warm this world, not be wasted responding to these bored speculations.”

She paused, turning to look at Shen Muchen, who had been watching her in silence. The moment their gazes met, the strength she had been forcing herself to maintain nearly collapsed.

“As for who I am…” She took a deep breath, turned back, and said the final words to all the lenses: “Who I am is not important. What is important is that the truth is right here. Whether you believe it or not is up to you.”

The flashes went off again. But this time, it was no longer malicious capture; it was a record filled with awe. It was a complete victory. The little white rabbit had bared her fangs, crushed all the malice, and crowned her god.

Shen Muchen stood behind her, watching that slender yet upright silhouette. His heart beat violently in his chest. Not because of nervousness, but because of… excitement.

He had never seen Song Xingran like this. She was like a sword drawn from its scabbard—though the hand holding it still trembled, the blade had already tasted blood. A heat, unprecedented and mixed with a surge of pride and a twisted desire for conquest, burned in his blood.

I really want… to take her away right now. To press this queen, who had commanded the room in front of hundreds, beneath him, to make her cry, and to see her wear that expression of vulnerability that belonged only to him.

Shen Muchen reached out. Under the watchful eyes of the crowd and countless cameras, he didn’t shy away at all. His large hand covered the hand she had hanging at her side.

The moment he held it, Shen Muchen was stunned. It was soaked with sweat. Her palm was clammy and slick, and her fingers were still twitching nervously. She wasn’t nearly as calm as she appeared—she was terrified to the absolute limit, on the verge of collapse. Shen Muchen’s heart tightened as if someone had squeezed it hard. So she was trembling all along. So this blade was forged from her fear.

He didn’t speak. He simply tightened his fingers, wrapping her cold, small hand tightly in his own dry, burning palm. He interlaced his fingers with hers, leaving no gaps. He passed on warmth, and he passed on strength. He pulled her, and turned. The peach-blossom eyes above his mask curved into an arc of extreme tenderness and extreme doting. He didn’t look at the media even once; he only lowered his head to look at her, his eyes filled with a message only she could read: Well done. Let’s go home.

The two walked into the company lobby, leaving the media with a dashing and firm silhouette. This time, no words were needed. This holding of hands was the most powerful statement possible—She is mine. We are one.

[Shen’s Observation Log] Subject: Song Xingran Environment: Center of a public opinion storm / Entrance of Voice Realm Culture Status: Battle Mode

I. Data Statistics Frequency Synchronization: 99% (Soul resonance. She precisely became the main frequency of the scene, filtering out all noise.) Physiological Reaction: Excessive palm sweat, slight trembling of the extremities (amplitude < 0.5cm), estimated heart rate > 140 BPM. Conclusion: She is afraid. But she has conquered her instincts.

II. Achievements Unlocked Today [Fangs of the Little White Rabbit]: The subject displayed unprecedented aggressiveness and logical defensive capabilities. The way she smiled while questioning the reporter was just like an elegant assassin. [Absolute Noise Reduction]: Used sound as a barrier to reconstruct order amidst chaos. As long as she is there, the world is quiet. [Public Marking]: Completed a silent vow and confirmation of ownership in front of countless lenses.

III. Current Psychological State The subject displayed astonishing explosive power under extreme pressure. She is no longer just a pet hiding behind me for protection, but a partner capable of fighting alongside me. When I held her clammy, trembling hand, I realized—this “strength” not only failed to diminish my desire for control, but instead triggered a deeper, more dangerous “desire for destruction.”

IV. Private Note I want to take this queen, who commanded the room in front of everyone yet hides in my palm trembling afterward, home. Tear that crisp suit to shreds and consume her bit by bit. This debt (reward)… I will settle it, with interest, in bed once my throat recovers.

Decision: She is my background noise, and she is my glory. This life, we are locked in.

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