On Wednesday morning, Shen Jia Yan arrived at the courthouse right on time.
Even though they had been careful not to leak the trial time to the media, a crowd of reporters had already gathered at the courthouse entrance. Long lenses and cameras pointed at everyone coming and going, with flashes popping incessantly.
The members of Chuze Band got out of the car and prepared to enter through the main gate.
“Chuze Band is here! Shen Jia Yan is here!” one of the reporters spotted them and shouted loudly.
Immediately, all the media surged toward them.
“Jia Yan, what do you have to say about the plagiarism accusations against Tide Line?”
“Do you have a hundred percent confidence in winning this trial? What if you don’t—what then?”
…
The questions came like a tidal wave, sharp and probing, laced with curiosity and intrusion. The cameras pressed almost right up to their faces, the flashes blinding. The assistants and bodyguards instinctively closed ranks to shield them.
Shen Jia Yan kept her head down, wearing a mask and hat, her fingers clenched tightly around her bag strap until her knuckles turned white. She had once stood at the center of a stage before thousands, basking in cheers and applause, but now she felt suffocating pressure.
Just as she was squeezed to the point of nearly stepping back, a steady, cool voice cut through the noise. “Please make way.”
The crowd parted orderly.
The sound of black high heels striking the ground grew closer, like a barrier that firmly planted itself in front of Shen Jia Yan.
Wen Wan Ning wore a sharply tailored deep gray suit, her hair neatly pinned up, her expression calm and composed. Her gaze swept over the reporters, her voice clear and forceful. “According to the relevant provisions of the Civil Procedure Law, the trial has not yet begun. All media are requested not to block the parties involved or interfere with judicial order.”
She shifted slightly, completely shielding Shen Jia Yan behind her. “Ms. Shen is a key figure in this case and is entitled to legal protection. Our firm reserves the right to pursue legal liability for any personal attacks, privacy intrusions, or leading questions against her.”
The reporters were cowed by her presence and instinctively stepped back half a pace.
Wen Wan Ning said no more. She reached out and gently took hold of Shen Jia Yan’s wrist—the touch light, yet carrying an irresistible firmness. “Let’s go,” she whispered, her voice audible only to them. “I’ve got you.”
Shen Jia Yan’s heart jolted fiercely.
Those three words struck like an electric current from her ear straight to her heart.
Five years ago, standing alone under the academic building at Jingbei University, when she had tentatively asked, “Can you stay with me a bit?”, how she had longed for her to say those words.
Even just a “sure,” even just a brief moment side by side—she wouldn’t have spent that night in tears, walking back to the dormitory alone.
And today, she had said it. She had used her body to part the crowd for her, her back shielding her from the cameras.
They walked side by side into the courthouse. Wen Wan Ning’s hand still loosely held her wrist, gentle yet like an anchor steadying her racing heartbeat.
Away from the crowd, Wen Wan Ning released Shen Jia Yan’s hand.
The warmth on her wrist vanished like a sudden retreating tide, leaving an empty chill. Shen Jia Yan instinctively curled her fingers, as if she could still feel that moment of firm support.
The corridor grew quiet, their footsteps echoing softly on the vast marble floor. The courthouse’s cold white lights illuminated Wen Wan Ning’s profile, outlining her serene and restrained features. She had resumed her lawyer’s demeanor, eyes fixed ahead, steps steady.
“Thank you,” Shen Jia Yan said softly.
But Wen Wan Ning suddenly stopped, turning to face her.
Under the lights, her gaze was no longer just calm—it brimmed with tenderness and resolve. The corners of her mouth curved up in a faint yet profound arc. “You’ve protected me so many times. This once, no need to thank me.” I hope I can always stand in front of you.
Before Shen Jia Yan could respond, she continued, “The trial starts in twenty minutes.” She pulled a document from her folder and handed it over. “These are the possible lines of questioning from the opposing counsel. Let’s go over them one last time.”
Shen Jia Yan took the file, her fingertip brushing Wen Wan Ning’s hand in that instant—like a spark racing through her nerves.
“Okay.”
Ten minutes later, Wen Wan Ning glanced at the courtroom doors at the end of the corridor, pushed open by the bailiff. She turned to Shen Jia Yan with a gentle voice. “Let’s go, Jia Yan.”
Shen Jia Yan put away the materials. “Okay.”
They walked toward the doors, one behind the other.
Even facing the media scrutiny, the opposing lawyer’s cross-examination, and the public’s speculation as she stepped into the courtroom, Shen Jia Yan felt an unprecedented sense of security.
Not because of the case’s odds, but because… Wen Wan Ning was by her side.
They entered the courtroom and took their seats as required. Shen Jia Yan sat in the plaintiff’s spot, Wen Wan Ning in the defense counsel seat beside her.
Less than half an arm’s length separated them, yet that distance felt tightly bound by an invisible thread—each breath audible to the other.
Wen Wan Ning’s cuff brushed her hand lightly, like those casual touches from their school desk days long ago.
In the gallery, the other members of Chuze Band sat quietly. Lin Che gave her a slight nod, his eyes conveying silent support.
The courtroom fell silent as the judge took the bench. The gavel fell lightly, the voice steady. “Court is now in session. Plaintiff, please state your case.”
Plaintiff’s counsel Wen Wan Ning rose, her voice clear and measured, each word like a nail. “Your Honor, this is not a simple copyright dispute—it’s a deliberate smear campaign and act of creative plagiarism.”
She turned slightly, her gaze sweeping over Shen Jia Yan in the plaintiff’s seat before shifting to the defendants.
“Three months ago, Jiuhe Band released the single Island, with upbeat arrangement, 4/4 verse rhythm, and a range under an octave.”
She brought up the projection, the sheet music comparison clear as day. “Ms. Shen Jia Yan’s Tide Line, created six months ago, has demo recordings traceable to February this year—three full months before Island‘s release.”
She continued, “We submit two key pieces of evidence: first, the original demo recording and handwritten draft, timestamped and verified by digital watermarking, impossible to forge; second, surveillance footage from Chuze Band’s rehearsal room, timestamped February 17th this year, showing Ms. Shen Jia Yan alone recording the main melody of Tide Line.”
The courtroom was pin-drop silent.
Wen Wan Ning pressed on steadily, pointing to the rhythm and chord analysis in the score comparison. “From a professional standpoint, the two songs share no substantial similarities in key, structure, or emotional core.”
The opposing counsel tried to interrupt. “Then why do so many listeners think the melodies are similar?”
Wen Wan Ning’s gaze sharpened like a blade, locking onto them. “Because when Jiuhe Band released Island, they deliberately used suggestive language in their promo copy—like ‘tidal emotional rhythms’ and ‘the fated resonance of islands and tides’—to guide the public into making associations and create an opinion trap.”
The judge frowned slightly, flipping through the evidence chain, expression growing grave.
Finally, Wen Wan Ning said, her voice low and resolute, “Your Honor, true plagiarism isn’t melodic coincidence—it’s trampling on a creator’s blood, sweat, and tears.”
“Jiuhe Band didn’t just try to steal a song’s reputation—they weaponized public opinion to erase a musician’s creative efforts.”
She turned, her gaze landing on Shen Jia Yan. In that instant, the lawyer’s edge softened into bottomless tenderness and support.
The judge closed the file and looked at Shen Jia Yan. “Plaintiff, please explain your creative intent.”
Shen Jia Yan took a deep breath and slowly stood.
She didn’t look at the defendants or the gallery—just at Wen Wan Ning.
Their eyes met, and Wen Wan Ning’s gaze told her, Don’t be afraid. I’ve got you.
She lifted her head, staring straight at the opposing counsel, her voice clear yet carrying a soul-piercing power. “Tide Line is for my grandmother… and the person I…” She paused, as if chewing on the weight of five years hidden in “the person I like.” “…It’s about parting, waiting, the pain of loving without return. If someone gets it, it’s because they’ve stood on the tide line too, waiting for someone who never comes back.”
She paused, eyes glistening, but she smiled.
“I wrote it not to bury the past, but to remind myself—even if I never get that wait answered, I loved truly once.”
Her final word lingered in the courtroom like the traces left on the sand after the tide recedes.
Wen Wan Ning’s fingers trembled slightly as she sorted her documents.
She didn’t look up, because her eyes were red—that unshed tear heavier than any words.
As expected, Chuze Band won.
The judge ruled on the spot: Jiuhe Band guilty of malicious defamation and copyright infringement. They were to immediately cease spreading false statements, issue a public apology, and compensate for emotional distress and economic losses.
The gavel fell, crisp and solemn.
In the gallery, Chuze Band’s members embraced tightly.
But in the plaintiff’s seat, Shen Jia Yan didn’t move.
She stared ahead, eyes unfocused, as if not yet recovered from that long mental journey.
Until a warm hand covered the back of hers.
She turned her head to see Wen Wan Ning standing beside her, shirt collar slightly loosened, expression still serene, but her eyes shimmering with fine light.
“We won,” Wen Wan Ning said softly, her voice weary, relieved, and brimming with unconcealed tenderness.
“Thank you,” Shen Jia Yan whispered, her voice faint, as if it took all her strength.
Wen Wan Ning didn’t say “no need” or “it’s my job.” She just gently squeezed her hand.
Everyone exited the courtroom.
Yang Han approached Wen Wan Ning, eyebrows raised. “Lawyer Wen, you have to come to the victory celebration tonight—you’re the star.”
Wen Wan Ning glanced at Shen Jia Yan.
She wanted to go, but her cousin Su Fang Yu was returning today. They had plans for dinner, and he had insisted it was important.
“Um…” She started to tactfully decline when an idea flashed in her mind.
She remembered Su Fang Yu telling her it was a big private gathering and she could bring colleagues. His events featured business and entertainment figures—bringing Shen Jia Yan and the others could help network.
“It’s like this, Han-jie,” she said, glancing at Shen Jia Yan from the corner of her eye. “My cousin is hosting a private party tonight and insisted I come, so I’d like to invite you all to join me.” She quickly added, “Don’t worry, his gatherings are very private. He’ll have business partners, and sometimes entertainment friends. Yu Chu will be there too.”
“Yu Chu.” Hearing the intimate address, Shen Jia Yan felt a faint sting in her heart—sourness or loss, she couldn’t tell.
Yang Han hesitated, frowning. “Lawyer Wen, we should be treating you to thank you properly…”
Wen Wan Ning cut in gently but firmly. “Han-jie, just call me Wan Ning. We’ve got plenty of time ahead—no rush for this one.” She leaned in slightly, her gaze brushing Shen Jia Yan’s downcast lashes, her tone warming. “This time, it’s on me. Let’s keep in touch more.”
Lin Che grinned and leaned over at once. “We have to go! Right, Jia Yan?” He deliberately patted Shen Jia Yan’s shoulder, pulling her from her daze.
