— Old Chen’s Professionalism

Time: The day before Lunar New Year’s Eve, on the highway. Perspective: The Driver, Old Chen. BGM: Traffic reports on the radio (volume at a minimum) + faint, indeterminate vibrations from the backseat.

I am Old Chen, Mr. Shen Muchen’s personal driver and housekeeper. I consider myself a man who has seen his fair share of storms.

Whether it’s Mr. Shen coldly firing an executive in the backseat, listening to endless financial reports while rubbing his temples, or his extreme perfectionism—the car must be a constant 24°C, 50% humidity, and absolutely zero dust—I handle it all with ease.

Rule #1 of my profession: Don’t hear what you shouldn’t hear, don’t see what you shouldn’t see. Rule #2 of my profession: Drive smoother than a heartbeat.

But lately, I feel my career has faced an unprecedented challenge. The source of this challenge is Ms. Song Xingran.

Ever since Ms. Song appeared, Mr. Shen has changed. The old Mr. Shen was like an ice sculpture untouched by the mortal world; the current Mr. Shen… is like a volcano ready to erupt at any moment.

For instance, right now.

We are on the way to Ms. Song’s hometown. Traffic on the highway is light, and the Maybach is moving smoothly. I instinctively glanced at the rearview mirror to check on the backseat.

Mr. Shen was closing his eyes to rest, and Ms. Song was curled up in the corner looking at the scenery. Everything looked normal. Then, Mr. Shen opened his eyes and pressed that button.

Whirr— The black, opaque soundproof partition slowly rose.

My heart skipped a beat. As a veteran driver, I know exactly what this move implies. It means: what happens next is not content that a driver with a million-yuan annual salary is entitled to witness.

The partition rose completely, turning the backseat into a private chamber. I stared straight ahead, gripping the steering wheel, and turned up the radio volume by a notch, trying to use the traffic report to mask the activity behind me—even though the soundproofing of this car is top-tier, and in theory, I shouldn’t hear a thing.

However, I am a driver. I drive by “vibration.”

About ten minutes passed. The car body suddenly underwent a minute, aerodynamically impossible… sway. It wasn’t a road bump; the pavement was perfectly flat. It was a rhythmic, internal shift in the center of gravity.

I looked at my nose, kept my mind centered, and pretended to be a Terracotta Warrior driving a car.

Five minutes later, the vibration became more pronounced. Through the transmission of the chassis, I could feel the leather seats in the back bearing some sort of intense, repetitive pressure.

My mind involuntarily conjured up Mr. Shen’s usual look of abstinent indifference, contrasting it with what might be happening behind me… Ahem. See no evil, think no evil.

Suddenly, a small curve appeared ahead. Instinctively, I wanted to slow down to keep the ride steady. But right then, a dull thud came from the back—like a body hitting the seatback. Although muffled by the partition, the force of the impact… tisk, tisk, tisk.

I silently lifted my foot from the brake and gently tapped the gas pedal, letting the centrifugal force of the turn be just a fraction stronger. (Mr. Shen, no need to thank me; this is the greatest assist Old Chen can provide for you.)

Sure enough, the vibration frequency in the back seemed to falter for a second, then became even more frantic and violent. It felt like a small boat caught in a fierce storm.

I sighed and checked the dashboard. Two hours left on this journey home. At this rate of vibration, I’m seriously worried about my shock absorbers, and Mr. Shen’s lower back.

Half an hour later. The partition remained tightly shut. But the rhythmic vibrations finally stopped. In their place came a long, deathly silence.

I figured the battle was over.

A while later, the partition lowered. Through the rearview mirror, I stole a cautious glance.

Ms. Song Xingran was curled up in Mr. Shen’s coat, her face red as a cooked shrimp, eyes hazy, and even her hair strands exuded a disheveled beauty that suggested she’d been “bullied” mercilessly. And Mr. Shen… he was slowly and methodically wiping his fingers with a wet wipe. Those hands—long, strong, and clearly defined. He wiped with such focus, looking as satisfied as a predator that had just finished a top-tier feast.

“Old Chen,” Mr. Shen suddenly spoke, his voice unnaturally raspy, thick with the lingering resonance of lust.

“Yes, Mr. Shen,” I responded immediately.

“Turn the air conditioning up by two degrees.” He glanced at the person in his arms. “And drive a bit more steadily.”

“Understood.” I silently executed the command.

Deep down, I thought: Mr. Shen, you were the one vibrating the hardest back there.

[Old Chen’s Professional Notes]

1. In the future, keep a large supply of bulk purified water and wet wipes in the car (the consumption rate is staggering).

2. Should I suggest Mr. Shen upgrade the rear suspension system to a model more resistant to high-intensity vibration?

3. The year-end bonus should go up, right? After all, I’m no longer just a driver; I’m the gatekeeper of a “mobile love hotel.”

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