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Shen Yuan was in the middle of doing absolutely nothing productive when his phone buzzed.

That, in retrospect, was the first red flag.

The message was from Shen Jiu.

Shen Yuan stared at the name for a full three seconds, thumb hovering, spine already prickling with the deep, ancestral fear that only one’s older twin could inspire.

Shen Jiu: Come to court tomorrow. Testify.

…Okay.

Cool.

Great.

Normal sibling interaction.

Shen Yuan immediately sat up, heart dropping into his stomach like it had somewhere better to be.

Court. Testify.

Those were not words you texted casually unless you were:
1. being sued
2. suing someone
3. involved in a crime
4. involved in several crimes
5. about to ruin Shen Yuan’s entire week

Shen Yuan typed back.

Shen Yuan: Did you kill someone.

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Shen Jiu: Don’t be stupid.

That was not a no.

Shen Yuan’s brain began helpfully assembling possibilities at record speed.

Okay. Maybe not murder. What about manslaughter? Tax evasion? Academic fraud? Oh god, academic fraud. Shen Jiu had been a professor for years. Professors absolutely committed crimes. Not always illegal ones, but crimes against humanity, certainly.

Shen Yuan typed again.

Shen Yuan: Is this about money.
Shen Yuan: Or students.
Shen Yuan: Or a body you need me to lie about.

This time the typing pause was longer.

Shen Yuan closed his eyes. Somewhere, deep in his soul, a death flag fluttered gently in the breeze.

Shen Jiu: Divorce.
Shen Jiu: Asset division.
Shen Jiu: Just come help.

Shen Yuan stared at the screen.

Once.

Twice.

Then he leaned back against his couch and let his head thunk gently against the wall.

“…Divorce?” he said aloud, to the empty apartment, to the uncaring universe.

Not a divorce. The divorce.

As in: Shen Jiu and Yue Qingyuan.

As in: again.

Shen Yuan dragged a hand down his face. Right. Okay. This made… more sense. Which was to say: it still made none, but at least no one was dead. Probably.

Shen Jiu and Yue Qingyuan had been married for years, in the same way a fault line and a tectonic plate were technically coexisting. They loved each other. Deeply. Painfully. Incorrectly.

They also divorced like it was a seasonal hobby.

This would be—Shen Yuan did a quick mental count—what, the seventh time?

Eighth, if you counted the one that never made it past screaming in the kitchen and Mu Qingfan being called at three in the morning.

Still. Court was new.

Shen Yuan frowned at his phone.

Shen Yuan: Why do you need me.

Another pause. Longer this time. Shen Yuan could practically hear Shen Jiu grinding his teeth through the screen.

Shen Jiu: You’re my brother.
Shen Jiu: And you replaced me.

Oh. Oh no.

That sentence alone contained at least three disasters.

Shen Yuan swallowed. Right. That.

Years ago, when Shen Jiu had finally quit his university teaching job—thank god—he’d personally recommended Shen Yuan as his replacement. Twins. Same face. Same credentials. Different personality.

The students hadn’t noticed.

They genuinely hadn’t noticed.

Evaluations had even improved.

Shen Yuan had tried not to think too hard about what that said about academia.

Apparently, now, it said something in court.

Shen Yuan: I don’t think that’s how testimony works.

Shen Jiu: You’ll manage.
Shen Jiu: Be there at nine.

The chat went silent.

Shen Yuan stared at his phone until it dimmed.

Then, very carefully, he opened his browser and typed:

“Can you refuse to testify in divorce court if your twin is insane”

The search results were not promising.

Somewhere across the city, Shen Jiu was sharpening knives—metaphorical ones, hopefully—and Yue Qingyuan was probably preparing to give away an entire company just to avoid signing a piece of paper.

And Shen Yuan, who had woken up expecting a normal day, realized with sinking certainty:

This was going to be a nightmare.

⸻

Shen Yuan arrived at the courthouse and immediately regretted leaving his apartment.

Not because of the building—though the beige walls, fluorescent lighting, and faint smell of institutional despair were already suffocating—but because of everything else.

Outside, a black car rolled up with a quiet elegance, Shen Yuan squinted and saw Yue Qingyuan step out, impeccably dressed, calm, and quietly exuding the sort of despair that came from knowing your husband was about to ruin your life legally again.

Shen Yuan instinctively ducked behind a lamppost. He wasn’t supposed to be hiding. He was supposed to be a responsible adult twin-witness. Yet here he was, assessing tactical exits.

And then: Shen Jiu arrived.

He didn’t walk. He glided. Every inch of him radiated menace and entitlement. His suit was perfect. His expression was perfect. His sheer existence was… threatening. Shen Yuan’s spine did an involuntary backward somersault.

Shen Yuan had one hand on the courthouse door and one on his wallet. He needed evidence that he still existed as a sane person. No luck.

Shang Qinghua was there, already sweating in a crisp suit and nervously arranging papers like he was about to defuse a bomb. Which, honestly, he probably was. CFOs were supposed to handle finances, not these kinds of emotional earthquakes packaged in legal jargon, but here he was, valiantly clutching spreadsheets like life depended on it.

Then Shen Yuan spotted Mu Qingfan, carrying a huge folder of notes, looking like someone who had seen all the marital disasters of the century and had been personally scarred by each. He made eye contact with Shen Yuan, a slow nod acknowledging: Yes. This is going to be a problem.

Qi Qingqi was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, expression unreadable but clearly judging everyone in the room. She had no official business here other than probably being a company witness.

Shen Yuan took a deep breath. Technically, he was here to support the legal process, but the room was already a battlefield of tension, fear, and personality clashes.

He shuffled forward, trying to look inconspicuous. A futile effort. He spotted Mobei Jun sitting silently in a corner, radiating so much presence that the air around him seemed to vibrate. Shen Yuan made a note to avoid breathing in his direction.

The clerk called names, procedural stuff, and Shen Yuan’s heart sank.

He wanted a time machine.

Or a hole.

Or both.

Instead, he straightened his back, adjusted his tie, and reminded himself: You’re a professional now. Just answer questions. Don’t die. Don’t get involved. Definitely don’t accidentally destroy everything.

He took a seat, tried to blend in, and immediately realized that in this room, blending in was impossible.

And somehow, deep down, he knew this was going to be worse than anything Shen Jiu ever did as a teacher.

The judge entered, all gravitas and paper-shuffling, and immediately silenced the murmurs. Shen Yuan tried to focus, but the words bouncing around his brain refused to cooperate. Divorce proceedings. Asset division. Corporate ownership. Emotional destruction. All in the same room. His pulse felt like it had doubled in speed without asking permission.

Shen Jiu sat at the plaintiff’s table, impeccably calm, the calm of someone who already knew every outcome and was mentally tallying points scored in a war no one else understood. Shen Yuan had to consciously resist the urge to kneel in apology for crimes he had not yet committed.

Yue Qingyuan’s side was quieter. Calm, patient, and hiding a mountain of frustration behind a thin smile that did not reach his eyes. Each movement was measured, as if someone had carefully rehearsed every sigh, every hand gesture, so that nothing could trigger Shen Jiu into another performance of dramatic outrage.

Witnesses began shuffling forward. Shang Qinghua’s hands shook slightly as he clutched his folders; the sweat on his temples glimmered under the fluorescent lights. Shen Yuan could see every spreadsheet and legal document he had memorized in the last thirty seconds, and yet it was not enough. It never would be enough.

The judge cleared his throat and began summarizing the case. Asset division. Divorce. Company ownership. Shen Jiu wanted proof of… something. Yue Qingyuan was prepared to give almost everything except the one thing Shen Jiu demanded most. The room tilted slightly, not physically, but in the sense that the emotional gravity was pressing on Shen Yuan’s chest.

Each word seemed to echo. Each pause felt like a countdown. Shen Yuan’s thoughts ricocheted between he cannot handle this and he has to survive this. Testify. Do not die. Do not say the wrong thing. Do not let Shen Jiu’s life-or-death glare meet Yue Qingyuan’s quiet despair.

As the first witness was called, Shen Yuan realized, with a mounting sense of dread, that his entire existence had somehow been funneled into this room at this precise moment. One wrong word, one flinch, and the delicate balance of decades of marriage, corporate authority, and twin identity could collapse.

And he was supposed to sit there and be the sane, reasonable, articulate one. Which, of course, made perfect sense in a world where reality had abandoned him entirely.

The proceedings had begun. Shen Yuan’s internal panic multiplied exponentially. There was no turning back. The entire room seemed to be collectively holding its breath, and Shen Yuan felt every molecule of oxygen weigh like lead. The day had barely started.

And Shen Yuan was already convinced he might never leave.

Qi Qingqi was called as the first witness.

Shen Yuan felt a brief, traitorous surge of relief. She was sane. Competent. She worked in the company. Surely this would be straightforward. Surely she would stick to facts, answer minimally, and not expose the emotional disaster at the center of this marriage like a particularly patient anthropologist.

Qi Qingqi stepped forward, heels clicking softly against the courtroom floor, posture relaxed in the way of someone who had already accepted that this day would be stupid but intended to survive it anyway. She stated her name, position, and relationship to the company in a clear, even voice.

The lawyer asked how long she had worked under Yue Qingyuan.

“Seven years,” Qi Qingqi said. “Five in management.”

Shen Yuan nodded faintly. Good. Normal. This was fine.

The lawyer asked if she was familiar with Shen Jiu.

“Yes.”

No elaboration. Shen Yuan admired that.

The lawyer asked if Shen Jiu had an official role in the company.

“No.”

Then the lawyer asked about Shen Jiu’s involvement.

Qi Qingqi paused. Just long enough.

“Involvement,” she repeated, thoughtfully. “Not officially.”

Shen Yuan’s stomach tightened.

She continued, still calm. “However, Director Yue is… attentive.”

The lawyer leaned forward. “Can you elaborate?”

Qi Qingqi nodded once. “There was an instance during a quarterly planning meeting. We were finalizing contracts with two external partners. Director Yue received a call.”

Shen Yuan watched Yue Qingyuan’s shoulders tense almost imperceptibly.

“He left the meeting,” Qi Qingqi said. “Mid-discussion.”

The lawyer raised an eyebrow. “For what reason?”

Qi Qingqi glanced briefly—not at Yue Qingyuan, but at Shen Jiu. Her expression remained professionally neutral.

“He said Shen Jiu wanted coffee.”

The courtroom went very still.

Shen Yuan’s brain stalled.

Coffee.

Not an emergency. Not a crisis. Not an emotional breakdown. Coffee.

Someone had left an important meeting—for coffee.

Shen Yuan felt something inside him short-circuit. His internal voice scrambled for footing. Who leaves a meeting like that? With investors present? Who does that?, that was—

Qi Qingqi continued, unbothered. “He returned fifteen minutes later. The meeting resumed.”

The lawyer blinked. “Did this… affect the meeting?”

“Yes,” Qi Qingqi said. “We lost our negotiating advantage.”

The lawyer nodded slowly, clearly savoring this. “Were there other instances?”

Qi Qingqi tilted her head slightly, considering. “Yes.”

Shen Yuan felt dread bloom, cold and heavy.

“There was another occasion,” she said, “where Director Yue interrupted a video call with a partner company’s CEO, to relay instructions to his secretary.”

The lawyer’s pen paused. “Instructions regarding…?”

Qi Qingqi’s eyes flicked—just for a moment—to Shen Yuan.

“Purchasing a limited-edition figurine.”

Silence.

Shen Yuan’s internal systems began screaming.

A figurine. That was—no. Wait. That sounded—

Shen Yuan remembered, vividly, texting Yue Qingyuan weeks ago. A passing comment. Casual. Maybe a gift request. That was it. That was all.

He had not said now. He had not said urgent. He had certainly not said interrupt corporate diplomacy.

Shen Yuan’s soul attempted to leave his body.

The lawyer leaned back. “Did Director Yue explain the urgency?”

“No,” Qi Qingqi said. “He simply said it was important.”

Shen Yuan’s face heated. He stared fixedly at the table. This was not his fault. This was absolutely his fault. He had become complicit through proximity. This was how crimes happened.

The lawyer nodded, satisfied. “In your professional opinion, does Director Yue frequently prioritize Shen Jiu’s requests?”

Qi Qingqi did not hesitate. “Yes.”

She paused. Then added, evenly, “To the detriment of the company.”

There it was.

Shen Yuan glanced at Shen Jiu. His expression was sharp, unreadable. Not pleased. Not angry. Something more complicated, something tight and brittle.

The lawyer shifted. “And yet, you’re testifying on behalf of Shen Jiu?”

Qi Qingqi shrugged lightly. “I work for the company. Stability matters.”

Which meant: as long as she didn’t get fired.

Shen Yuan understood that deeply.

The lawyer nodded, satisfied, and stepped back.

Qi Qingqi returned to her seat, posture unchanged, expression serene, as if she had not just described a man willing to derail corporate operations for caffeine and plastic.

Shen Yuan sat frozen.

He glanced at Yue Qingyuan again.

Yue Qingyuan did not look defensive. He looked… quietly ashamed.

Shen Yuan’s chest tightened.

This was worse than he thought.

⸻

Mu Qingfan was called next.

The sound of his name alone caused a subtle shift in the roomlike a pressure change before a storm. Shen Yuan straightened without meaning to. If Qi Qingqi had been dangerous because she was honest, then Mu Qingfan was dangerous because he was careful.

Very careful.

Mu Qingfan approached the stand with the air of someone who had done this before. Not court specifically, life. He carried a thick folder tucked under one arm, edges worn soft, the kind of folder that had been opened and closed so many times it had absorbed despair by osmosis.

He stated his name, credentials, and occupation calmly.

“Court-mandated couples therapist,” he added, after a beat.

The judge paused. “Court-mandated?”

“Yes,” Mu Qingfan said mildly. “After the third divorce attempt.”

The judge blinked.

Shen Yuan felt something in his chest deflate. Third. They were on seven now. At this point, Mu Qingfan should have been awarded hazard pay.

The lawyer cleared his throat. “Doctor Mu, how long have you been counseling the parties involved?”

Mu Qingfan consulted his notes. “Five years.”

Five years.

Shen Yuan did the math automatically. Five years of this. Five years of them. He tried not to imagine the emotional toll and failed spectacularly as someone who was with them his whole life.

“And during this time,” the lawyer continued, “have you observed recurring patterns in their relationship?”

Mu Qingfan smiled politely.

“Yes.”

The lawyer leaned forward. “Could you describe them?”

Mu Qingfan paused.

This pause was not hesitation. This was calibration.

“There is,” Mu Qingfan said slowly, “a consistent cycle of misunderstanding, emotional escalation, dramatic rupture, attempted separation, and reconciliation.”

The judge nodded. “That sounds… typical.”

Mu Qingfan’s smile deepened by exactly one millimeter. “The frequency is less so.”

Shen Yuan bit the inside of his cheek.

The lawyer nodded. “Would you characterize these disputes as severe?”

Mu Qingfan considered this. “Emotionally? Yes. Structurally? No.”

Shen Yuan’s brain snagged on that. Structurally no?

“Could you explain?”

“They are rarely about core incompatibilities,” Mu Qingfan said. “Values align. Long-term goals align. Affection is present.”

He glanced briefly at Shen Jiu and Yue Qingyuan—so fast it almost didn’t register.

“The conflict,” Mu Qingfan continued, “arises from… interpretation.”

The lawyer raised an eyebrow. “Interpretation of what?”

Mu Qingfan inhaled. Exhaled.

“Actions,” he said. “Silences. Assumptions.”

Shen Yuan had the distinct sense that Mu Qingfan was holding back an entire PowerPoint presentation titled ‘How Two Grown Men Ruined Their Own Happiness Repeatedly’.

The lawyer pressed on. “Have there been previous divorce filings?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

Mu Qingfan checked his notes again. “Six formal attempts. Several informal ones.”

The courtroom murmured.

Shen Yuan stared at the table. Six. Formal. Formal. There were forms. Paperwork. Stamps.

The judge pinched the bridge of his nose.

“And in your professional opinion,” the lawyer asked, “does either party exhibit malicious intent toward the other?”

Mu Qingfan did not answer immediately.

“No,” he said finally. “They exhibit fear.”

Shen Yuan’s head snapped up.

Mu Qingfan continued, tone still even. “Fear of being unwanted. Fear of being secondary. Fear of being misunderstood.”

The room went quiet.

The lawyer shifted, clearly recalibrating. “Doctor, are you suggesting this divorce is… avoidable?”

Mu Qingfan closed his folder.

“If the underlying misunderstanding were addressed,” he said, “yes.”

Shen Yuan’s internal alarm systems went haywire. Underlying misunderstanding. That was therapist language for something incredibly stupid and emotionally catastrophic.

The judge leaned forward. “Doctor, without violating confidentiality, can you clarify whether this misunderstanding pertains to finances?”

Mu Qingfan’s lips twitched.

“No.”

“Infidelity?”

“No.”

“Abuse?”

“No.”

The judge hesitated. “Then what—”

Mu Qingfan lifted one hand, gentle but firm. “With respect, Your Honor, revealing the exact trigger at this stage would likely escalate the situation rather than resolve it.”

Shen Yuan silently thanked him for that mercy. Whatever it was, it was not ready to be released into the wild.

The lawyer sighed, clearly unsatisfied but blocked. “No further questions.”

Mu Qingfan stepped down from the stand, looking exactly like a man who had just defused a bomb and knew there were still three more in the room.

As he passed Shen Yuan, their eyes met.

Mu Qingfan gave him a look—not pity, not warning, but something dangerously close to solidarity.

Shen Yuan’s stomach sank.

This man knew the reason.

And if it came out, Shen Yuan was fairly certain the universe would implode from sheer secondhand embarrassment.

The judge shuffled papers. “Next witness…”

⸻

The judge squinted at the file.

“…Luo Binghe?”

A young man stood immediately, chair scraping back a little too fast. He was tall, handsome in a way that felt aggressively out of place in a beige courtroom, eyes bright with sincerity and something almost devotional. He walked to the stand like he belonged there. Like this was exactly where he was meant to be.

Shen Yuan’s brain stalled.

Why is he here.

No one had told Shen Yuan Luo Binghe was here. No one had told Shen Yuan Luo Binghe was anything other than a former student who sometimes texted too much and smiled like that. This was a court of law. This was a divorce case involving assets, corporate ownership, and emotional damage measured in legal fees.

This was not—

“State your name and occupation,” the judge said.

“Luo Binghe,” he said brightly. “Graduate student.”

The judge nodded. “And your relation to the case?”

Luo Binghe paused.

He looked thoughtful. Then his gaze drifted—unerringly—toward Shen Yuan.

Shen Yuan felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

“I was his student,” Luo Binghe said.

The judge blinked. “Whose?”

Luo Binghe smiled. “Shen Yuan’s.”

Of course.

The lawyer cleared his throat sharply. “Mr. Luo, were you subpoenaed?”

Luo Binghe frowned. “Sub… what?”

The lawyer stared. “Were you called as a witness?”

Luo Binghe hesitated. Then, very carefully: “I followed.”

Silence.

A silence so complete it felt curated.

The judge slowly removed his glasses.

“You… followed?”

“Yes,” Luo Binghe said earnestly. “Shen Yuan seemed stressed.”

Shen Yuan’s soul attempted to exit his body through his shoes.

The lawyer pinched the bridge of his nose. “Let’s—let’s start over. Mr. Luo, you were a student of Shen Jiu. Correct?”

“Yes,” Luo Binghe said politely. “But only at first.”

The lawyer nodded, relieved. “And what was your experience under his instruction?”

Luo Binghe considered this.

“He was strict,” he said. “Unpleasant. Frequently hostile.”

Shen Jiu scoffed audibly from the defense table.

“But,” Luo Binghe continued, voice softening, “then Shen Yuan became my teacher.”

The lawyer stiffened. “Became?”

“Yes,” Luo Binghe said. “There was a change.”

A change. Like a software update.

“Can you clarify what you mean by ‘change’?” the lawyer asked.

Luo Binghe nodded eagerly. “Of course. The lectures became kinder. The feedback became constructive. The insults stopped.”

Shen Yuan stared at the wood grain of the table. The grain stared back, unjudging.

“Most people didn’t notice,” Luo Binghe went on. “They thought Professor Shen had simply undergone a personality shift.”

The lawyer blinked. “And you… didn’t?”

“No,” Luo Binghe said immediately. “I noticed right away.”

Oh no.

“Why?” the lawyer asked cautiously.

Luo Binghe smiled, radiant and doomed. “Because Shen Yuan is sweet.”

A sound escaped someone in the gallery. It might have been a cough. It might have been a suppressed scream.

“He explains things patiently,” Luo Binghe continued. “He listens. He encourages students instead of humiliating them. He brings extra chalk because he knows people get nervous when the board is full.”

Shen Yuan’s face burned.

The lawyer raised a hand. “Mr. Luo. This testimony—”

“And he smiles differently,” Luo Binghe added. “Not like someone daring you to challenge him. Like someone hoping you’ll succeed.”

The judge coughed. Loudly.

“Mr. Luo,” the judge said, tone tight, “what does this have to do with the divorce proceedings?”

Luo Binghe turned to him, startled. “Divorce?”

Yes. Divorce. That thing written in bold on every document.

“Yes,” the judge said. “Between Shen Jiu and Yue Qingyuan.”

Luo Binghe looked confused. Then thoughtful.

“Oh,” he said. “I see.”

No one believed him.

The lawyer slammed a folder shut. “Why is your name on the witness list?”

Luo Binghe frowned again. “Is it?”

“Yes!”

“That’s strange,” Luo Binghe murmured. Then, after a pause: “Perhaps it was destiny.”

The courtroom audibly lost patience.

“Mr. Luo,” the judge said firmly, “did you witness any disputes between the married parties?”

Luo Binghe hesitated. “No.”

“Any discussions of assets?”

“No.”

“Any events relevant to this case?”

Luo Binghe looked back at Shen Yuan.

Shen Yuan did not look back.

“…Shen Yuan skipped lunch once,” Luo Binghe offered. “That was concerning.”

The judge closed his eyes.

The lawyer looked like he might cry.

“That’s enough,” the judge said. “This witness is dismissed.”

“But—” Luo Binghe began.

“Dismissed,” the judge repeated.

Luo Binghe nodded obediently and stepped down, stopping briefly beside Shen Yuan.

“You’ll be okay,” he whispered, with complete confidence.

Shen Yuan did not know what expression was on his face, only that it felt like the universe was actively mocking him.

Behind him, Shen Jiu clicked his tongue.

“What a nuisance,” Shen Jiu muttered.

Yue Qingyuan, inexplicably, looked faintly pleased.

The judge shuffled the papers again, jaw tight.

“…Next witness,” he said, like a man bracing for impact.

Shen Yuan had the terrible, sinking realization that things were not stabilizing.

They were escalating.

“Next witness,” the judge said, already tired in a way that suggested this case would be referenced later in legal circles as that one.

“Shang Qinghua.”

Shen Yuan straightened immediately.

Oh no.

Shang Qinghua stood up with the air of a man who had memorized several spreadsheets that morning and had not emotionally recovered. He adjusted his glasses, smoothed his perfectly reasonable suit, and walked to the stand like this was just another meeting he wished could’ve been an email.

“State your name and occupation,” the judge said.

“Shang Qinghua,” he replied crisply. “Chief Financial Officer of Yue Group.”

There was a murmur in the room. Shen Yuan’s brain latched onto chief financial officer and refused to let go.

“So,” the lawyer began, “can you explain your role in relation to the married parties?”

“Yes,” Shang Qinghua said. “I oversee all major financial operations, asset management, mergers, acquisitions, and—unfortunately—divorce-related reallocations.”

Unfortunately felt personal.

“Were you aware of this divorce proceeding in advance?”

Shang Qinghua hesitated for exactly half a second.

“…Yes.”

Shen Yuan’s spine went rigid.

“And did you take any actions related to company assets as a result?”

“Yes.”

Shen Jiu leaned forward slightly.

Yue Qingyuan did not look at him. He looked at the floor. Like a man awaiting judgment.

“Please specify,” the lawyer said.

Shang Qinghua took a breath. “Approximately three weeks ago, Chairman Yue instructed me to initiate the transfer of all shared marital assets—including controlling shares of Yue Group—into Shen Jiu’s sole ownership.”

The courtroom froze.

Not metaphorically. Time genuinely seemed to pause.

Shen Yuan’s thoughts went white-hot.

All.
The assets.
The company.

Someone in the gallery audibly said, “What the fuck?”

The judge blinked. Slowly. “All assets?”

“Yes,” Shang Qinghua said, nodding. “Completed, notarized, and filed.”

The lawyer whipped around. “You’re telling this court the division of assets has already occurred?”

“Yes.”

The lawyer stared. Then turned—very carefully—toward Shen Jiu.

Shen Jiu looked like someone had just slapped him across the face with a financial statement.

“…What,” Shen Jiu said flatly.

Yue Qingyuan finally looked up.

Shen Jiu turned on Shang Qinghua. “Why didn’t you tell me?!”

Shang Qinghua opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “You told me not to contact you unless someone was dying.”

“That’s not—” Shen Jiu stopped. Ground his teeth. “That’s the only reason I’m here!”

The courtroom buzzed.

Shen Yuan’s brain screamed incoherently. He gave him the whole company???? For free????

Yue Qingyuan stood abruptly. “I wanted to try your mind about this.”

Shen Jiu snapped his head toward him. “You what?”

“I thought—” Yue Qingyuan swallowed. “I thought if I showed you I wasn’t fighting you over anything, you might—”

“I won’t change my mind,” Shen Jiu said sharply. “You know what you did.”

“I really don’t,” Yue Qingyuan said, voice breaking just slightly. “I’m—I’m so, so sorry.”

“You forgot our anniversary!”

The words cracked through the room like a gunshot.

Shen Yuan physically flinched.

Yue Qingyuan stared. “…No I didn’t?”

“Yes you did!”

“Our anniversary is two months from now.”

“It is not!”

“Yes, it is,” Yue Qingyuan insisted. “It’s always been—”

“It’s next week!”

“No, love, it’s—”

“DON’T ‘LOVE’ ME—”

“Order!” the judge barked, slamming the gavel.

Too late.

Mu Qingfan stood up.

Everyone turned to him.

“Actually,” Mu Qingfan said mildly, hands folded, “it is two months from now.”

Shen Jiu froze.

Yue Qingyuan looked like he might cry in relief.

Mu Qingfan adjusted his glasses. “I tried to tell you.”

Shen Jiu’s head snapped around. “When?”

“In my office,” Mu Qingfan continued calmly, “when you burst in declaring therapy hadn’t worked and that you were divorcing.”

“…Oh.”

“You shouted for six minutes,” Mu Qingfan added. “Then stormed out before I could finish the sentence.”

Dead silence.

Shen Yuan stared at Shen Jiu in disbelief.

This—this—was the reason?

Yue Qingyuan took a step closer. “I didn’t forget.”

Shen Jiu’s face went red. Then darker. Then… uncertain.

“…You didn’t?”

“No,” Yue Qingyuan said quietly. “I’d already planned it.”

Shang Qinghua stared straight ahead like a man dissociating at work.

The judge leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples.

“…So,” he said slowly, “this entire case—”

“—is their seventh divorce they didn’t go through.” Mu Qingfan finished pleasantly.

Shen Yuan’s soul left his body, packed a suitcase, and moved abroad.

Somewhere behind him, Luo Binghe whispered, “I knew love would prevail.”

Shen Yuan did not acknowledge this.

The judge sighed, deeply and profoundly.

“I need a recess,” he said. “Immediately.”

There was a beat of silence so profound it felt contractual.

Then Shang Qinghua cleared his throat.

“Ah,” he said, raising one tentative finger. “Just to confirm—so you two are… back together, right?”

No one answered him.

Yue Qingyuan had already stepped forward, hands on Shen Jiu’s coat, like the rest of the courtroom had ceased to exist. Shen Jiu didn’t even pretend to resist. If anything, he leaned in first.

Shen Yuan watched in numb horror as Yue Qingyuan kissed him.

Not a polite kiss. Not a reconciliation peck.

A kiss.

Shen Yuan looked away on instinct, but it was too late. The image burned itself directly into his brain, right next to “taxes” and “student evaluations” and “things I never wanted to see my brother do.”

Shang Qinghua exhaled in visible relief. “Thank god,” he said. “Because I didn’t actually transfer the assets.”

Everything stopped.

Shen Yuan’s head snapped back.

The judge froze mid-reach for the gavel.

Mu Qingfan blinked.

“…What?” Shen Jiu said, breaking away just enough to glare.

Shang Qinghua adjusted his glasses, suddenly very aware of the room. “I mean. I filed the intent. But if I’d actually handed over full control of the company overnight, Yue Group would collapse within a fiscal quarter.”

He paused, then added, helpfully, “We’d lose three international contracts by Tuesday.”

The courtroom stared at Yue Qingyuan.

Who was… not listening.

At all.

He had one hand at the back of Shen Jiu’s neck now, kissing him again like this was a private apartment and not a government building.

Shen Yuan’s soul aged ten years.

The judge slammed the gavel so hard it echoed. “ENOUGH.”

They broke apart, barely.

“Everyone,” the judge continued, voice strained with the knowledge that no amount of law school had prepared him for this, “OUT. Recess. Immediately. Before I charge someone with contempt or emotional distress.”

No one argued.

Shen Yuan left fast.

Too fast.

The hallway felt too bright, too normal, for what he had just witnessed. He hadn’t even testified shit.

He rubbed his face.

Testifying was never happening again. Ever. He would commit a minor crime to avoid it.

His phone buzzed.

A message from Shen Jiu.

Thank you.

Shen Yuan stared at it.

Long enough to consider several responses. None of them civil.

He typed back nothing.

Instead, he blocked Shen Jiu.

Just for twenty-four hours.

For his mental health.

For his peace.

For the sanctity of courtrooms everywhere.

He put his phone away and walked off, determined never to speak of this day again.

Somewhere behind him, he could still hear Shang Qinghua asking if anyone wanted to schedule an emergency board meeting.