At eleven p.m., the rain outside the window was still falling steadily, as if the entire city had been wrapped in a damp, cold layer of plastic wrap.

Song Xingran was curled up beneath the blanket, an old laptop resting on her knees. The faint blue glow of the screen illuminated the silver USB drive in her palm—one that still seemed to retain a phantom warmth.

Reason told her she should lock it away in a drawer, hand in her resignation first thing in the morning, and stay far away from that dangerous man.
But her hand seemed to have a will of its own. Trembling slightly, she plugged the USB drive into the port.

She put on her headphones and pressed play.

“—Inhale.”

A sharp, wet intake of breath sounded in her ears.

It was her own voice.

Captured by top-tier equipment, every tremor was rendered with merciless clarity. Immediately after came Shen Muchen’s low, calm instruction:

“Too shallow… breathe in from here.”

Through the current, the sound was even more exposed than it had been in the studio. She could hear the faint rustle of fabric in the background—the sound he’d made when he moved close behind her. She could hear the resonance in his chest when he spoke. She could even hear her own soft gasps—those involuntary, breathless sounds forced out by the so-called “thermal radiation.”

“Ah…”

Song Xingran clapped a hand over her mouth. Her cheeks burned as if they were on fire. Shame flooded over her like a tide—but deep beneath it, there was a strange, tingling current, crawling up her spine.

She didn’t want to admit it, but her body was responding honestly.
That sense of being controlled, guided, enveloped by something overwhelmingly dominant—it gave her a twisted feeling of safety.

Like a small boat lost in a violent storm, finally finding a harbor that forced it to dock—even if that harbor was ringed with sharp reefs.

She listened again and again.

By the time night deepened, she finally fell asleep amid that chaotic heat.

In her dreams, there was only one image:
A hand hovering above her lower abdomen—less than a millimeter away, never touching.

The next day, 1:55 p.m.

Song Xingran stood outside Studio A.

This time, she wasn’t late.
And she didn’t hesitate.

Like a moth that knows there is fire ahead, yet still rushes toward it without regret.

She pushed open the door.
Cold air and the scent of cedar rushed toward her.

Shen Muchen was seated at the control console as usual, a fountain pen in hand as he revised a score. Hearing the door, he didn’t turn around. He only said flatly:

“Lock the door.”

Her heart skipped a beat. She reached back and turned the lock.

Click.

She had sealed herself inside this isolated cage.

“Come here.”

He turned his chair and swept his gaze over her slightly drawn face, a faint curve lifting the corner of his lips.

“Did you listen to the assignment?”

The tips of Song Xingran’s ears flushed red. She lowered her head and murmured, “Mm.”

“Good.”

Shen Muchen stood and picked something up from the desk.

It wasn’t yesterday’s book.

It was a black silk ribbon.

Wide, satin-finished, gleaming faintly with a cold sheen in the dim light.

“Today is your first official lesson.”

He stepped in front of her, winding the ribbon once around his fingers, producing a soft rustling sound.

“The theme is: deprivation.”

Song Xingran stared at the ribbon, her breathing hitching.
“Deprivation… of what?”

“You rely too much on your eyes,” Shen Muchen said calmly.
“When you look at me, you tense up. You anticipate my movements. Vision is your greatest source of interference. Only when you can’t see will your ears and skin truly open.”

He moved behind her.

“Turn around.”

Her body stiffened as she complied.

“Close your eyes.”

Darkness fell instantly.

A cool, smooth ribbon covered her eyes. Shen Muchen didn’t touch her skin—his fingers deftly avoided her ears and hair, letting the silk rest lightly against her eye sockets before tying it at the back of her head.

The world went completely black.

With her sight severed, her hearing amplified instantly. Song Xingran could hear the low hum of the studio’s climate system, the subtle friction of fabric, and—

Shen Muchen’s breathing.

“Now,” he said, “your world contains nothing but sound.”

His voice began to move.

First behind her.
Then to her left.
Then to her right.

He was circling her.

Leather shoes pressed softly into the carpet, producing dull, muted sounds—like a countdown designed to apply psychological pressure.

Song Xingran stood frozen, gripping the hem of her skirt with both hands, her entire body taut. She didn’t know where he was. She didn’t know what he would do next.

The fear of the unknown heightened her senses to a pathological degree.

“Relax.”

The voice came suddenly from extremely close—

Right beside her right ear.

“Ah!” She flinched, shrinking her neck.

“Shh.”

His breath brushed against the rim of her ear. He didn’t touch her, but the warmth carried by his voice was like a wet tongue licking across her earlobe.

“This lesson’s rules are simple,” his voice drifted to her left ear, near and far at once, ghostlike.
“You’re going to ‘listen’ with your skin.”

There was a soft metallic pop in the air.

Then came the sound of writing—pen scratching against paper.

“Extend your hand. Hold it level.”
A command.

Trembling, Song Xingran raised her right arm and held it out in midair.

Several seconds of dead silence.

Then—

An extreme cold closed in on the inside of her arm.

It was the metal tip of a fountain pen.

Shen Muchen didn’t touch her skin. He held the tip just millimeters away and slowly, evenly traced it downward from her wrist.

The metal’s inherent chill created a stream of cold air along her warm skin.

Though there was no contact, her brain filled in the sensation automatically. It felt as though an ice blade were slicing her arm open. Goosebumps erupted across her skin.

“Feel it?”
Her physiological reaction was unmistakable.

“Your skin is screaming.”

The pen tip continued upward—past her elbow, to the tender inner side of her upper arm.

That hovering, almost-touching sensation was more unbearable than actual contact. Song Xingran bit her lower lip, her breathing quickening as her body instinctively leaned back.

“Don’t move.”

Shen Muchen’s voice turned cold.

He didn’t grab her. Instead, he pressed something else against her back.

A thick, hardcover book.

The icy, rigid spine pressed into her spine, sealing off her retreat.

Cold pen tip in front.
Hard book at her back.

She was trapped between them.

“Imagine this,” Shen Muchen coaxed softly.
“The pen is my finger.”

The pen tip left her arm and moved to her collarbone.

He traced the shape of it through the air. Cold lines formed invisible paths across her skin.

“It’s cold, isn’t it?”

“But if I touched you…”
His voice grew hoarse.
“It would become hot.”

The pen slid down along the hollow of her collarbone, stopping at her neckline.

She was wearing a high-neck top, but there was a small cutout below the collar, exposing a patch of pale skin.

He guided the pen into that opening.

Still no contact.

The metal moved subtly in the confined space, stirring cool air. Song Xingran felt as if she were being invaded. The hollow agitation made her chest ache; her nipples hardened uncontrollably beneath her bra, rubbing against the fabric in waves of prickling pleasure.

“Mm…”

A broken moan slipped out.

“Nice sound.”

He withdrew the pen.

“Next—open your mouth.”

Blindly, she parted her lips.

Something cold and cylindrical pressed lightly against her lower lip.

The pen barrel.

Smooth. Hard. Cold.

“Hold it.”

She hesitated, then closed her lips around it. The metallic taste spread across her mouth.

“Don’t let it fall.”

He released it.

She had no choice but to use her lips and tongue to keep the pen in place. Her tongue curled instinctively around the barrel. Saliva flooded her mouth, spilling from the corner of her lips and wetting the pen.

Shen Muchen stood in front of her, watching.

The black ribbon covered her eyes, making her look fragile and helpless. Her flushed mouth clung desperately to his black fountain pen, trembling faintly with each breath, producing tiny, wet sounds.

That pen—normally used to sign documents and revise scores—was now a toy in her mouth.

The hidden transgression and visual impact darkened Shen Muchen’s gaze instantly.

He still didn’t touch her.

He bent down, close enough that he could almost kiss her.

“Listen to your sounds,” he murmured at her ear, dangerous pleasure laced in his voice.
“Swallowing. Breathing. And the sound of the pen hitting your teeth.”

Click.

Her teeth knocked against the pen.

“Too loud,” he said, sounding satisfied.
“But I don’t dislike this kind of noise.”

He reached out and grasped the end of the pen.

Then—he gently twisted it.

“Mmh—!”

The pen rotated inside her mouth, brushing against her sensitive tongue and palate. The foreign sensation made her whole body shudder; her legs went weak, nearly giving out. She tried to spit it out—but his grip prevented escape.

“Endure it.”

His voice was hoarse as he watched her flushed neck.

“This is the essence of the first lesson.”

“You can’t see—so all you can do is feel.”

“Feel its shape in your mouth. Its temperature.”

“And feel how I control it.”

He moved the pen slowly in and out a few times.

There was no skin-to-skin contact.

The only connection between them was that cold metal pen.

Yet Song Xingran felt utterly violated.

Shame mixed with the strange fullness in her mouth, sending an uncontrollable heat surging from deep within her body, soaking her underwear.

Finally, Shen Muchen pulled the pen out.

A thin, glistening strand stretched between the pen tip and her lips—then snapped.

She gasped for air like a fish dragged onto land.

He untied the ribbon.

Light stabbed back into her vision.

Tearfully, she looked up at him.

He was still perfectly composed, not a wrinkle out of place. He held the pen—now slick with her saliva—in his hand. His eyes were deep as the sea.

“Class dismissed.”

He took out a handkerchief and wiped the pen slowly.

The movement was elegant, unhurried—

And made her heart pound violently, as if he weren’t cleaning a pen, but something else entirely.

“This pen,” he said, slipping it back into his chest pocket—over his heart,
“I’ll keep.”

“The next time you want to speak, think about how it tasted in your mouth.”

Song Xingran covered her mouth and fled Studio A.

In the hallway, she slid down the wall, her heart racing as if it might explode.

He hadn’t touched her.

They hadn’t kissed.

Yet her lips burned as if they’d been scorched by fire.

That cold metallic taste had carved itself into her tongue—
and refused to fade.

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