Chapter 71: Lawyer Wen

Afternoon sunlight slanted into the room, casting several parallel bands of golden light across the floor of Chuze Music Studio.

Chuze Band had burst onto the scene three years earlier. Like a gust of wind carrying youth and restlessness, they ignited the music scene on the city’s fringes with a few original songs that spread through underground live houses.

The band exploded in popularity, moving from underground venues to the mainstream, from scattered audiences to packed concerts drawing tens of thousands. Their name began appearing on the headliner lists of major music festivals, their album sales climbed steadily, and every new song release stirred up waves on social media.

But at that moment, the atmosphere in the studio was far from pleasant.

The air was thick with the bitter scent of cooled coffee and an intangible restlessness.

Manager Yang Han stood by the window, constantly on the phone. She kept her voice low, but her tone was urgent, fine beads of sweat forming at her temples. She had already fielded more than a dozen calls from media outlets and partners, each question landing like a heavy blow.

“How will you respond to the plagiarism allegations?” “Will the new album launch proceed as planned?” “The brand wants to pause the endorsement deal until the investigation concludes.”

The spark that ignited all this was an accusation that erupted online that morning.

A little-known band called Jiuhe Band posted a lengthy article claiming that the main melody of Chuze Band’s latest hit single Tide Line bore similarities to their own song Island, released three months earlier, accusing them of deliberate plagiarism.

Tide Line was a new song written and composed by the band’s drummer, Shen Jia Yan.

She had penned it on a rainy night, weaving in memories of Grandma, her youth, and Wen Wan Ning…

That day, she sat alone in the empty rehearsal room as thunder rumbled outside. It reminded her of her late Grandma and the Wen Wan Ning she had loved so deeply.

Holding her guitar, her fingers unconsciously strummed the strings, and a melody flowed out—slow and low, like the traces left by receding tides, like the farewells she had never voiced.

She wrote the first line of lyrics: “The moment you turned away, like the tide sweeping away the sandy shore.”

The melody was gentle like tides, profound like memories, carrying the rhythm of rain. It captured her longing for Grandma and served as a farewell to that fruitless love.

Tide Line wasn’t born from thin air. She had built it bit by bit with her tears, memories, and all the emotions she couldn’t express.

She buried all her love, all her pain, all her unfinished conversations into the notes.

In the studio, lead singer Lin Che stared at the lengthy post on his computer screen, his fingers trembling slightly.

He clicked on the original track of Island and listened carefully.

Indeed, the two bars before the chorus had similar melodic progressions—both descending major thirds with comparable rhythms. But descending major thirds were one of the most basic melodic patterns in music; similarities were hardly surprising.

More importantly, the arrangements of the two songs were completely different, and their emotional tones pulled in opposite directions.

Island was a lighthearted urban love song, while Tide Line was a somber, intimate monologue infused with rain sounds and ocean waves.

“This isn’t plagiarism,” Lin Che said in a low voice. “It’s a coincidence… or maybe someone trying to ride our coattails.”

Bassist Zhong Ruyi sneered. “Jiuhe Band? They haven’t released anything new in three years and were still scraping by with covers at live houses last month. Now they suddenly pop up claiming we copied them?”

Yang Han hung up the phone, her expression grave. “The issue isn’t whether they have evidence—public opinion has already exploded. It’s in the top three trending topics. Fans are arguing, critics are waiting for a response, and brands are holding back.”

Shen Jia Yan sat on the drum stool in the corner of the rehearsal room, her fingertips unconsciously rubbing the drumsticks until her knuckles turned white. The sky outside had darkened, as if rain was coming again.

She said nothing, just kept her head down like a silent statue. But her trembling eyelashes and the lips she pressed white betrayed the storm raging inside her.

Tide Line was her wound, a song she had written to her past with notes and tears. It held the silhouette of Grandma watering flowers in the Small Garden, the sound of Wen Wan Ning’s footsteps through the phoenix tree shadows, and that farewell: “Eat well, sleep well.”

That was her tide line, her thread of memories. How could it be crudely slapped with a “plagiarism” label?

Zhong Ruyi walked over and gently patted her shoulder. “Jia Yan, it’ll be fine.” She paused, her tone laced with chill. “This is obviously them trying to leech off our popularity. Jiuhe Band, silent for three years, jumps out now—who buys that?”

“We can easily prove ourselves with the materials we have.”

Shen Jia Yan nodded slowly, her voice soft but clear. “I have the manuscripts and the timestamps from the earliest demo recordings.”

Yang Han approached, arms crossed over her chest, her face bearing the cool sharpness typical of a manager. “Self-proof shouldn’t be an issue.” She glanced at Lin Che and the others. “Go gather all the creation process materials now—manuscripts, audio files, rehearsal room surveillance footage. Back everything up.”

Then her gaze turned to Shen Jia Yan, her tone softening slightly. “This song…” She trailed off, but the understanding in her eyes was crystal clear.

She knew Tide Line wasn’t just any song. It was Shen Jia Yan’s secret sorrow, her farewell to Grandma, her final whisper to the person she loved.

“This time, we won’t let it slide like before,” Yang Han said with a cold laugh, her eyes sharp as knives. “Plagiarism is a matter of principle.”

Her voice dropped, carrying an undeniable edge. “Someone’s trying to climb over Jia Yan’s wounds with these dirty tricks.”

“I’m hiring the best copyright lawyer to make sure they can’t turn this around!”

Lin Che suddenly remembered something, his eyes lighting up as he spoke urgently. “I have a classmate who’s the founder of Jiayu Law Firm—Han Yuchu. I can contact him.”

“Jiayu Law Firm?” Yang Han’s head snapped up, surprise flashing across her face, followed by undisguised admiration. “That’s the top firm in North City, with an impeccable reputation. They hardly ever lose a case.”

Her tone shifted from shock to urgency. “You can really reach them?”

Lin Che nodded and pulled out his phone. “We were college roommates. He went abroad for law school, started Jiayu when he returned—I even visited back then. We haven’t talked much lately, but for this, he won’t ignore it.”

He quickly scrolled through his contacts, paused for a second on the screen, then dialed.

The rehearsal room fell silent as everyone’s eyes fixed on him.

The phone rang three times before it was answered.

“Hello, Lin Che?” A steady, cool male voice came through, tinged with the familiarity of old friends.

“Yu Chu, it’s me.” Lin Che took a deep breath, a hint of tension in his voice. “I need your help with something.”

He explained concisely: Chuze Band’s new song Tide Line was accused of plagiarism by Jiuhe Band. They claimed melodic similarities, but the creation timeline, emotional core, and arrangement were entirely different, and they had full records.

“Our drummer, Shen Jia Yan, wrote the lyrics and music alone. Public opinion’s blowing up, brands are watching. We have manuscripts, demo timelines, surveillance—but we need a lawyer who can settle this decisively.”

There was a brief silence on the other end.

Then Han Yuchu’s voice returned, calm and resolute. “Bring me all the materials. Original files, recordings, surveillance videos.”

“Tomorrow at 10 a.m., you and Shen Jia Yan come to the firm with everything. We’ll discuss in detail.”

Lin Che’s heart eased, like grasping a lifeline.

“Got it.” He nodded vigorously, hope flooding his voice. “Thanks, Yu Chu.”

The call ended.

Lin Che looked up at the anxious faces in the room—Zhong Ruyi, Zhou Ke, Wu Lin, Yang Han, and the silent Shen Jia Yan.

He waved his phone, his voice clear and strong. “Yu Chu’s on it. Tomorrow, we head to his firm for a full talk.”

The tense air in the rehearsal room seemed to crack open with those words: “Yu Chu’s on it.”

Shen Jia Yan had kept her head down, fingers unconsciously twisting the end of her drumstick, as if retreating into her quiet shell. But at Lin Che’s words, she trembled slightly, her eyelashes lifting as her gaze finally shifted from the floor to his face.

“Really?” Zhong Ruyi asked first, her brows still furrowed but her tone brighter.

“Really.” Lin Che nodded, his voice steadier now, as if he’d found his rhythm again. “Yu Chu wants all the originals—manuscripts, demo creation times, the voice recorder pen with the first hummed version, and that day’s rehearsal footage. He’ll review it personally.”

Zhou Ke immediately opened his laptop. “I’ll sort it now. Timestamps are all there—even the thunder outside when Jia Yan finished the last line is in the recording.”

Lin Che sneered. “Let’s see how Jiuhe spins this. They think fans are idiots? Tide Line even has that day’s rain samples—good luck copying the arrangement or the emotion.”

Wu Lin patted Shen Jia Yan’s shoulder gently. “Don’t worry, Jia Yan. You’re not carrying this alone this time.”

Shen Jia Yan let out a soft “Mm,” then slowly gripped her drumsticks tight before releasing them.

The next day.

At 9:30 a.m., Lin Che brought Shen Jia Yan to Jiayu Law Firm.

Spring sunlight poured through the office building’s massive glass curtain walls, blending cool white and warm gold, making the lobby gleam.

Shen Jia Yan wore a short dark gray wool coat over a white turtleneck sweater, paired with sleek black straight-leg pants and low-heeled ankle boots. Her shoulder-length hair fell naturally, the ends shimmering with a soft chestnut glow in the light. Her minimal makeup couldn’t hide her striking presence.

She clutched a kraft paper file bag tightly—the complete trail of Tide Line from inception to completion.

Yellowed notebook pages crammed with crossed-out lyrics, the voice recorder pen, hard drive, rehearsal surveillance timeline… Every page, every second was her unalterable truth.

After verifying their info at reception, a guide soon appeared.

“Mr. Lin, Ms. Shen, this way please.”

A young, capable female assistant in a well-tailored navy skirt suit led them with steady steps.

She guided them down a quiet corridor lined with dark wood-paneled walls adorned with stark abstract paintings—lines severe, colors restrained, an extension of rationality and order.

At the end was a windowed conference room. Sunlight bathed the green plant in the center of the long table, breathing life into the space.

The door opened gently.

The assistant stepped aside. “Please have a seat and wait a moment. Lawyer Han is wrapping up a case—he’ll be about ten minutes.”

Lin Che thanked her and entered with Shen Jia Yan.

The assistant poured them coffee and left.

In the firm, a few young lawyers and assistants clustered near the break room at the corridor’s end, whispering excitedly.

“Was that Shen Jia Yan and Lin Che from Chuze Band? They look even better in person!” A new assistant’s eyes sparkled, coffee cup still in hand. “Especially Shen Jia Yan—the female drummer, so cool and quiet. Totally different vibes on and off stage!”

The lawyer beside her chimed in. “And both looks kill it.”

“They’re here about the plagiarism trending topic, right?”

“Probably.”

“No idea if it’s true or not.”

…

Not far from the door of the meeting room, the female assistant who had just stepped out softly called to the woman standing before her. The woman had a tall and slender figure with clear, cold features.

“Lawyer Wen.”