Lin Che’s heart jolted. He turned to look at Shen Jia Yan.
In the darkness, he could only make out her vague silhouette and the side of her face as she hung her head low.
He had known Shen Jia Yan since university. They had formed a band together. He had watched her transform from that lively and cheerful little girl whose eyes curved into crescents when she smiled, into the Shen Jia Yan who sat silently in the corner of the practice room writing songs, her eyes hiding stories.
Lin Che remembered the Shen Jia Yan who had just joined the band in university. She was like a gust of wind. Her drumbeats were always full of vitality, like a spring stream bubbling joyfully forward. She would leap up at a sudden chord inspiration and drag everyone into an impromptu jam session…
But later, everything changed.
When had it started?
Lin Che couldn’t say for sure.
He only knew that one day, Shen Jia Yan’s laughter grew scarce. Her drumbeats no longer danced; they became heavy and repetitive, like knocking on a question without an answer.
From others’ mouths, he learned that her confession had failed, and almost at the same time, her grandma had passed away.
The double loss was like a storm that completely submerged her.
It was after that she went abroad.
After Shen Jia Yan returned to the country, she clashed with her parents over work.
They hoped she could teach at a university, something stable and respectable.
But Shen Jia Yan didn’t want to be confined to a lectern. She wanted to make music without restraints, to let her voice be heard, to tell her own story through drumbeats and melodies.
“Music isn’t a job; it’s life,” she had once told her parents.
But her parents only saw the risks, not her passion. After a fierce argument, Shen Jia Yan packed her bags and moved out.
By a chance encounter, she reunited with Lin Che in the practice room.
Lin Che had just climbed out of the trough after his band disbanded. The two hit it off and decided to reform the band.
From the start of reforming the band, Shen Jia Yan hadn’t hidden her sexual orientation from the members. She openly told everyone that she liked girls.
Lin Che watched her journey—from a bright and sunny girl to a silent and resilient drummer. He knew she was no longer that girl who would cheer and leap for joy over a single note. She had grown stronger than before.
At this moment, hearing her speak the story behind “Tide Line” that she had always been unwilling to voice, he knew how difficult this decision had been for her.
He took a deep breath and nodded.
He understood the weight of her decision.
This wasn’t a simple legal commission. It was her, after five years of exhausting evasion, finally deciding to face that name she feared touching the most—the deepest, most painful one.
Lin Che said nothing more. He just lightly patted her shoulder, the gesture very gentle. “We’re all here.”
Shen Jia Yan felt a surge of warmth and smiled with a nod.
After arriving at the studio, Lin Che called Han Yuchu.
The phone was picked up quickly.
“Yuchu, sorry, I was a bit rude earlier.”
Han Yuchu took the phone and walked over to Wen Wan Ning, raising his brows at her. “It’s fine. Have you discussed it?”
“Yeah, we’ve decided to entrust the case to Lawyer Wen.”
On the other end, Han Yuchu clearly let out a breath of relief, though his tone remained cautious. “Good. This case can’t be dragged out; public opinion is fermenting. We need to issue an official statement soon.”
Lin Che glanced at his watch. “Alright, can we come by this afternoon?”
Han Yuchu looked at Wen Wan Ning and said softly, “This afternoon?”
Wen Wan Ning nodded.
Han Yuchu replied into the phone, “Sure.”
The call ended.
Wen Wan Ning stood by the window, still holding the prepared defense strategy document for “Tide Line.” Her fingertips unconsciously rubbed the edge of the paper.
The weather outside was clear. Sunlight filtered through the glass, gilding a faint layer of gold on the shoulders of her beige suit.
She didn’t speak, just stood there quietly, like a statue gazing into the distance.
Han Yuchu walked over and leaned against the desk, looking at her. “She agreed.”
Wen Wan Ning gave a soft “mm” without turning around.
But Han Yuchu could tell that the tension in her shoulders had finally eased by an inch.
He knew what she was thinking. Not the case, not the chain of evidence, not the PR strategy.
It was that “Hello, Lawyer Wen,” that brief and restrained hand, the tremble hidden in Shen Jia Yan’s retreating back.
Five years had passed, and they had both changed.
One had become a calm, professional lawyer; the other, a silent and resilient creator.
But some things had never truly vanished.
※
They set off for the law firm right after lunch. Yang Han had been handling things with the brand that morning and couldn’t make it, but now that it was sorted, she joined them.
Han Yuchu was right—this couldn’t be delayed any longer. Public opinion was spreading fast.
Under the hot search terms, malicious speculations in the comments had already surpassed ten thousand. Some media had released “insider” scoops claiming that the melody of “Tide Line” bore a striking resemblance to an unpublished manuscript from a late composer, even attaching a blurry audio comparison.
Shen Jia Yan sat in the back seat of the car, gazing at the fleeting street scenes outside the window. Her fingers unconsciously traced the texture of the drumstick—the custom star-sign one engraved with her initials that she hadn’t used in a long time.
Lin Che sat beside her. He turned and glanced at Shen Jia Yan, worry creasing his brow. “You okay, Jia Yan?”
Shen Jia Yan turned to him and smiled faintly. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
Lin Che nodded and didn’t press further. He was her bandmate and her friend. He knew some roads had to be walked by the person involved.
The nanny van pulled up steadily in front of Jiayu Law Firm.
Han Yuchu was already waiting at the entrance, Wen Wan Ning standing beside him.
She had changed into a dark gray suit that made her figure look even slimmer. Sunlight fell on her face, highlighting the faint weariness in her eyes, but those eyes were clearer than ever.
The car door opened.
Shen Jia Yan took a deep breath and stepped out.
In the instant their eyes met, the air seemed to freeze.
No “long time no see,” no smiles, no handshake—only the wind, lifting the stray hairs from her forehead and rustling the document folder in Wen Wan Ning’s hand.
Han Yuchu broke the silence first. “Let’s go inside to talk.”
He pushed open the door and led the way into the firm. Lin Che and the others followed, their footsteps echoing in the corridor.
Shen Jia Yan was about to step forward when she saw Wen Wan Ning hadn’t moved.
She stood in place, her gaze fixed on Shen Jia Yan’s face. Her voice was soft yet clear and undeniable. “Thank you.”
Shen Jia Yan froze, her foot halting.
Wen Wan Ning didn’t avoid her gaze. Instead, she leaned forward half a step, as if to let the words sink deeper. “Thank you for being willing to believe me.”
Those words were like a key, gently turning the rusty lock in Shen Jia Yan’s heart.
She looked at the woman before her.
The one who had once made her sob uncontrollably in the rain, the one she had tried to forget over five years—now standing in the sunlight, eyes clear, tone sincere, like fulfilling a long-overdue ritual.
For a moment, Shen Jia Yan felt her heart skip a beat again, traitorously.
She nodded lightly. “I’m the one who should thank you for being willing to take our case.”
Lin Che turned back from inside the door and softly urged, “Jia Yan, come on in.”
Shen Jia Yan finally stepped forward, brushing past Wen Wan Ning. Her sleeve grazed the other’s arm, a faint warmth passing over her skin.
She didn’t pause or look back, just clenched her hand lightly.
In the conference room, sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting striped shadows like still tide lines across the long table. The air was filled with the scent of paper, coffee, and old wooden furniture—quiet enough to hear each other’s breathing.
Wen Wan Ning entered last and gently closed the door.
She didn’t sit right away. Instead, she went to the projection screen and opened her laptop. The screen lit up with an encrypted file titled clearly and heavily: Tide Line — Creation Timeline and Originality Analysis.
She turned, her gaze sweeping over everyone present. Her voice was calm and professional, like a precise scalpel. “Public opinion is fermenting. We don’t have much time.”
She then opened the document folder, her voice steady and clear. “I’ve drafted an initial response strategy. First, we’ll release a lawyer’s statement this afternoon, emphasizing that Tide Line was created earlier than the accusation and backed by a complete chain of evidence. Second, apply to file a network infringement liability lawsuit and sue the malicious rumor-mongering accounts. Third, produce a clarification video recounting the song’s creative background.”
She laid it out logically, her pace even, every word calculated precisely, devoid of emotion.
Yang Han nodded immediately. “No problem with the clarification video. We’ll prep it.”
Lin Che murmured agreement, and the atmosphere shifted to professional and pragmatic.
Only Shen Jia Yan kept her head down, her fingertips unconsciously tracing the wood grain on the table. She listened to Wen Wan Ning’s deployment—every word clear in her ears—but what she focused on more was her voice.
That voice was cool and restrained, like an irrefutable courtroom verdict. But just moments ago, she had used the soft, familiar tone from their past to whisper “thank you” to her.
“Jia Yan?” Wen Wan Ning noticed her distraction and lifted her eyes slightly, gaze landing on her face. “For the clarification video, we need you to personally recount the creative intent behind Tide Line. It’s crucial. The public needs to know this song isn’t plagiarism—it’s a crystallization of real emotions.”
Shen Jia Yan looked up and met her eyes. “Okay.”
Wen Wan Ning nodded with quiet relief, then plugged a USB drive into the laptop. The screen displayed a clear file directory: Tide Line Demo v1.mp3, Tide Line Manuscript Scans.pdf, Practice Room Surveillance.mp4.
“Jia Yan,” she looked up, gaze on Shen Jia Yan, professional and restrained. “I need to confirm the authenticity and timeline of these files. Can you go through them one by one?”
Shen Jia Yan nodded, her voice calm. “Sure.”
She pointed to the first file on the screen. “This is the first demo I recorded in the practice room at 1:18 a.m. on February 12th. It was raining outside. I used my phone to record the guitar and vocals; the thunder in the background is real.”
She played the audio. A low, slow melody flowed out, carrying rain sounds and faint electrical hum. The line “the moment you turned away, like the tide taking the sandy shore” rose slowly in the quiet conference room, like a silent farewell.
Wen Wan Ning closed her eyes briefly, then opened them quickly. She couldn’t afford to lose focus in front of the evidence.
“And the manuscript?” she asked.
“Here.” Shen Jia Yan opened her own laptop and flipped to a page filled with handwriting. “The lyrics were written that night; the melody was refined bit by bit over the following days. Every page has dates and revision marks.”
Wen Wan Ning examined it closely, her fingertip lightly tracing the writing. Those familiar strokes, the ones she had seen countless times on homework notebooks, now filled with “tide,” “sandy shore,” “rain sounds,” “farewell.”
She took a deep breath and turned to Yang Han. “What about the surveillance video?”
“Exported already,” Yang Han nodded. “Clear footage showing Jia Yan alone in the practice room writing and recording.”
Wen Wan Ning watched the screen. In the video, Shen Jia Yan hugged her guitar, head bowed as she strummed. Lightning flashed outside the window, illuminating the contour of her profile.
She closed the laptop and looked up, gaze firm. “The chain of evidence is complete, timeline clear, creation process independent. We can prepare to sue and issue a statement to the media simultaneously.”
She paused, her voice softening slightly. “Tide Line is not plagiarism.”
Shen Jia Yan looked up and met her eyes.
Those eyes, once brimming with tenderness and affection, were now calm as a deep pool.
“So,” Wen Wan Ning closed the laptop, gaze resolute, “in one hour, we’ll release the official statement with all the evidence.”
