Standing beside you
Chapter 1: Enemy Counsel
The morning light in Shanghai was the color of wet concrete, filtering through floor-to-ceiling glass that turned every lawyer in the building into a silhouette of importance. Dolly Fang stood on the 46th floor, one hand clutching a paper cup of black coffee, the other gripping the strap of her tote as though it might leap from her shoulder and run.
She hated this time of year—April, when the city smelled of exhaust and forsythia and the air-pressure dropped so low that even a civil litigator could feel a storm coming.
The elevator arrived with a polite *ding*. She stepped inside, pressed 48, and watched the doors begin to slide shut. At the last second a black Oxford shoe blocked the sensor. The doors re-opened like startled birds.
Mike Lin walked in.
He wore charcoal wool that had never seen a wrinkle, a steel-gray tie the exact shade of his eyes, and the faint scent of cedar from whatever after-shave lived in the marble bathroom of whichever five-star suite he'd crawled out of. He nodded once—economical, courteous—and moved to the opposite corner.
For three floors the silence was surgical.
Dolly stared at the LED floor indicator, willing it to move faster. She could feel him in her peripheral vision: arms folded, head inclined, the way a man stands when he has already calculated every exit route.
Floor 47.
"Counsel Fang," he said, voice low, "your memo on the new environmental regs was... incisive."
The word landed softly, like a thrown pebble. Incisive. Not *good*, not *interesting*—incisive. As though her forty pages of carefully curated outrage were a scalpel he might borrow one day.
She took a sip of coffee to wet her throat. "Incisive is easy when the law is on your side."
A pause. "And when it isn't?"
"Then some people hire a criminal lawyer who can turn black into white."
The corner of his mouth lifted—half concession, half challenge. "The color depends on the light you shine."
The elevator opened. She stepped out first, heels stabbing the marble like accusations.
---
Rowland Ma, Managing Partner, believed in open-plan intimidation. Her office was a glass cube suspended above the city, the blinds permanently half-drawn so that visitors never knew whether to look at her face or the skyline.
Dolly stood in the doorway, file clutched to her chest. Rowland was on the phone, eyes skimming an internal memo that looked, from a distance, like a profit-and-loss sheet. She motioned Dolly inside without glancing up.
The call ended.
"You're aware of the Huangzhou chemical spill," Rowland said, sliding the memo across the glass table. "Three dead rivers, two cancer villages, one class-action that could buy us a new tower. I need two names on the pleadings—one civil, one criminal. You and Mike start tomorrow."
The words hit like cold water. "With respect, I request a different criminal partner."
Rowland's eyebrow arched—a motion executed entirely by Botox. "Grounds?"
"Moral incompatibility. Mr. Lin's defence of Simon Gao last year undermined public faith in justice. I was in that courtroom. I saw the victim's family."
Rowland leaned back. The leather chair sighed. "Justice is a process, not a headline. The firm needs your environmental passion and his cross-examination precision. Objection overruled."
Dolly's reflection in the glass looked suddenly small—one woman in a navy suit, arguing against an empire of billable hours.
"Anything else?" Rowland asked, already reaching for the next file.
Dolly swallowed the taste of copper. "No, ma'am."
---
The pantry on 46 smelled of burnt espresso and microwave popcorn. Melanie Ho—HR queen, serial matchmaker, wearer of six-inch Valentino's that could qualify as lethal weapons—was stirring oat-milk into a latte the color of beach sand.
She took one look at Dolly's face and pushed the drink across the counter. "Alcohol would be kinder, but caffeine is cheaper."
Dolly told her about the forced pairing.
Melanie winced. "Rowland's new 'Buddy System'—because nothing says collaboration like shackling two people who want to strangle each other."
"He let a killer walk, Mel. The neighbour I used to babysit. His mother's blood was still on the walls and there he was, shaking Mike's hand like they'd won a lottery."
Melanie's eyes softened. "I remember the articles. But articles aren't evidence. And Mike isn't Simon Gao."
Dolly's laugh cracked. "Tell that to the headlines."
"Headlines don't write briefs. You do." Melanie nudged. "Use him. Out-lawyer him. Then, when the case is won, you can slam the resignation letter on Rowland's glass desk and walk out in slow-motion like Wonder Woman."
The image coaxed a reluctant smile. "You make everything sound like a music video."
"That's why HR exists—to provide soundtrack and snacks."
---
Underground Level B2, 8:47 p.m.
The car park smelled of rubber and damp concrete. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting prison-bar shadows across the rows of sedans.
Dolly beeped her Audi open. A figure unfolded itself from the bonnet of a nearby BMW—Mike, coat collar up, hands in pockets, the overhead light catching on the sharp line of his cheekbone.
She stopped three feet away, keys threaded between knuckles—city habit.
"Counsel Fang." His voice echoed slightly. "I wanted to speak before tomorrow's filing."
"So email me."
"I prefer breathing opponents."
She almost laughed. Almost. "What do you want?"
"Professional courtesy. The Huangzhou plaintiffs are your passion; the criminal referral is mine. Let's divide discovery now, not in front of a judge."
He spoke evenly, but there was a fatigue around his eyes she hadn't noticed in the elevator—tiny fractures in marble.
She hugged her tote tighter. "Professional courtesy? Fine. Stay out of my environmental reports, and I'll stay out of your confidential informants."
A nod. Then, softer: "I know what you think of me, Counsel. But the client is bigger than either reputation. Don't let contempt sabotage the case."
The word *contempt* landed heavy—legal and personal.
She opened her car door, the interior light washing over them both. "I'll do my job, Counsel Lin. Will you do yours without moral acrobatics?"
For the first time his composure cracked—just a flicker, like a micro-expression on cross-examination.
"We'll see who performs acrobatics when the evidence starts to bite."
She slid inside, slammed the door, and drove off—tires squealing on slick concrete—leaving him standing beneath the flickering tube-light, a solitary figure in an empire of shadows.
---
**End of Chapter 1**
Chapter 2: Paper-Bomb
*≈ 2,300 words*
Morning in Pudong always looked like someone had wiped the city with tracing paper—gray, luminous, vague. Dolly stepped off the maglev shuttle at 7:42, hair still damp from a three-minute shower, latte sloshing against the lid because she'd forgotten the cardboard sleeve. She hated being late; she hated being early when the person she most loathed was already there.
The 46th-floor war-room glowed LED-white. Two laptops sat opposite each other like opposing counsel at counsel table—her silver Mac decorated with a faded Human Rights sticker, his matte-black ThinkPad closed, spotless, ominous. Mike Lin stood at the window, back to the door, phone pinned between shoulder and ear. He spoke in clipped Mandarin, something about chain-of-custody labels. The cut of his coat against the skyline made her think of a chess piece: rook, not knight.
She cleared her throat. He finished the call without turning.
"Morning, Counsel Fang."
"Counsel Lin."She hung her coat on the back of the chair, a deliberate soft thud. "I uploaded the revised Statement of Claim at one-thirty. You'll have seen my track-changes."
"I have."He opened the lid; the screen bloomed with her document, margins bleeding red. "I accepted the epidemiology tables. The narrative sections need compression—twelve hundred words, not two thousand. Judges blink after page six."
Dolly felt heat crawl up her neck. "Justice shouldn't have a word-limit."
"Justice doesn't. Attention spans do."He swivelled the laptop so she could see the carnage: every adjective slashed, every appeal to morality boxed in crimson. It looked like a murder scene written in legal French.
She folded her arms. "If we strip the human cost we're left with spreadsheets."
"Spreadheets pay damages. Pathos buys headlines."His tone stayed flat, but the faintest emphasis on pathos flicked her on the raw.
Before she could retort the door hissed. IT clerk Peng rolled in a trolley stacked with banker's boxes—thousands of soil-test printouts, the environmental equivalent of ammunition crates. "Lab delivered overnight,"he announced, half-apologetic. "Password for the digital mirror is Huangzhou2024. Two-factor expires in forty-eight hours."
Peng fled. The room suddenly felt smaller, scented with toner and impending all-nighter.
Dolly cracked her knuckles. "Division of labour: I draft narrative, you verify authenticity. Agreed?"
"Agreed—provided narrative fits the chronology of the lab reports. No flashbacks, no rhetorical questions."
She exhaled through her teeth. "You audit numbers, I'll audit conscience."
A flicker in his cheek—almost a smile, almost. "Deal."
They worked in silence broken only by keystrokes and the soft whirr of the central printer. Outside, fog swallowed the Huangpu River. Inside, two versions of the truth took shape on split screens.
At 11:18 Dolly found a discrepancy: benzene levels spiked three days BEFORE the plant's alleged leak. She highlighted the row neon-yellow. "Look at this. Either the lab mis-dated or the company lied about start-up date."
Mike leaned across, cologne faint, like cedar left out in rain. He traced the column with a stylus. "Sample I-D 2024-B-117. Chain-of-custody stamp shows 09:42 on 3 April."He opened the scanned PDF of the lab notebook. "Same. So the plant discharged earlier than declared."
Excitement fizzed in her chest. "That moves liability back a full week. We can claim punitive damages."
"Only if we can certify the sampler's credentials."He was already typing an email to the expert witness. Efficient, relentless.
Dolly sat back, watching his fingers fly. The morning's antagonism ebbed, replaced by the illicit thrill of a shared secret. She had accused him of moral gymnastics; perhaps she'd been the one jumping to conclusions.
Lunch arrived in the form of convenience-store sandwiches. Mike peeled the crust off his tuna wrap, methodical. She bit into egg-salad and spoke before she could stop herself. "Why criminal defence? Honestly."
He wiped a crumb from the keyboard, eyes still on the screen. "Because the state has the biggest gun. Someone has to check the safety catch."
"Even when the client is… unsympathetic?"
"Especially then. Sympathy gets public defenders; monsters get lynch mobs. Law lives in the space between."
His voice carried no swagger, just calm arithmetic. Dolly felt the conversation tilt into intimacy and jerked it back. "Well, this civil monster is about to pay our clients'medical bills."
He looked up then, a proper look, as if she were a page he'd finally decided to annotate. "We make a good team when we stop sparring."
Heat crawled up her throat again, different temperature. "Don't get sentimental, Counsel."
"Wouldn't dream of it."But his mouth curved—microscopic, measurable only by the most sensitive instrument.
Hours dissolved. Highlighters ran dry; coffee cups colonised every flat surface. At 5:47 the final draft hit 9,847 words—inside the judicial attention-span Mike insisted on. They exchanged USB drives like spies swapping briefcases.
Dolly stretched, spine popping. "I need dumplings or I'll expire."
"There's a place on Fuxing Road—hand-made, open late."He said it casually, eyes on the save icon, yet the invitation hung in fluorescent air.
She considered torpedoing it, but hunger overrode armour. "One condition: you let me pay, since you slashed my word-baby to ribbons."
He closed the laptop. "Shared bill. Like shared brief."
Outside, the city had slipped into indigo. Street-lights reflected in puddles like gold coins. They walked three feet apart—close enough for accidental sleeves, far enough for deniability—while Pudong's towers flickered to life, witnesses to a truce neither had expected to sign.
Over sesame-dusted dumplings they argued about footnote fonts and discovered they both alphabetise their bookcases and both sneeze at cilantro. Small data, big bang: the beginning of a different story.
Back at the office, midnight chimed from a distant church. Mike placed the printed brief into a scarlet folder and wrote on the tab in neat architect script: FANG & LIN v. HUANGZHOU CHEM. He showed it to her like a child presenting a crayon masterpiece.
Dolly's chest did something complicated. She tapped the folder. "Paper-bomb deployed."
"Let's see if it explodes in the right direction," he answered, and for the first time since the elevator, they smiled at each other without ammunition.
**End of Chapter 2**
Chapter 3: Rooftop Lock-In
*≈ 2,400 words*
Thursday arrived with a bruised sky, low clouds pressing against the tower's glass skin like damp tissue. The firm's monthly "well-being mixer"had been moved to the roof terrace—an attempt by HR to prove lawyers could socialize without billable units. Fairy lights zig-zagged between air-ducts; a single speaker played lo-fi jazz so politely it was almost inaudible.
Dolly intended a five-minute appearance—handshake, canapé, exit. She wore a dove-grey shift dress that passed Melanie's "casual but unforgettable"test and carried a cardigan like armour.
Melanie greeted her with two flutes of lukewarm prosecco. "You look like you're heading to a funeral."
"Mixer, funeral—both involve forced smiles and incriminating photos."
"Loosen up. Rumour says Mike's coming."Melanie's eyebrows performed a small jig.
Dolly's stomach executed a counter-movement. "Great. I'll need the second drink."
He arrived at seven-thirty, coat over arm, shirt the colour of wet cement—cool, immaculate. He nodded at colleagues, accepted a bottle of water, and stationed himself by the parapet, city glittering forty-six floors below. A neon billboard washed his profile crimson, then violet, then gold—an accidental light-show that made it impossible for Dolly to look away.
Melanie nudged. "Go discuss the brief. Or the weather. Or his jawline."
"I'm not discussing anything that could bench me for harassment."
But her feet carried her across the Astro-Turf. The evening smelled of rain and grilled beef from a nearby food-stall extractor.
"Counsel Lin,"she said, stopping one social distance away.
"Counsel Fang."He tipped the bottle in greeting. "I thought you avoided compulsory fun."
"I'm here for the shrimp puffs."She bit one to prove it; cayenne caught her throat.
He offered his water without comment. She drank, eyes watering, and handed it back—germs be damned.
Conversation lulled. Below them, traffic ribbons sped along the Yan'an Elevated, headlights smearing white, taillights bleeding red. The river was a black mirror cracked by barges.
Mike spoke first. "Your cross-exam outline for the Huangzhou hearing—page nine, line four—you dropped a citation."
Of course he'd memorised her page numbers. "I left it blank on purpose. I'll fill it when you confirm the lab certifier's credentials."
A flicker of approval. "Trade? I'll send the credentials tonight, you plug the cite tomorrow."
"Deal."She extended her hand before remembering she still held the half-eaten shrimp puff.
He shook her fingers anyway, polite to the end of the sentence.
Melanie's voice rang out across the roof: "Team photo, everyone! Roof door stays open—don't want anyone locked out in the rain."
The sky rumbled, obedient to script. Colleagues drifted toward the camera corner. Dolly turned to follow, but Mike remained at the railing, gaze fixed on a freighter gliding beneath the Lupu Bridge.
She hesitated. "Photo op."
"I'm happier here."His tone was soft, almost wistful—an adverb she'd never applied to him.
Curiosity overrode caution. "Thinking about the river?"
"About jurisdiction."He tapped the railing. "That ship's flag is Panamanian, cargo insured in London, crew mostly Filipino. If it spills tomorrow, which court gets the blame?"
"Whichever has the deepest pockets and the shortest docket."
His mouth curved—microscopic, but she caught it. The breeze lifted his hair; for a second he looked younger, less armoured.
Thunder cracked. The first fat drop hit Dolly's cheek. Someone shouted, "Inside, now!"
They moved toward the door. Too late. A gust slammed it shut with a pneumatic hiss.
Melanie's voice filtered through the glass: "Oops! Auto-lock's stuck. Maintenance coming—ten minutes, promise!"
Rain arrived in sheets, vertical and vindictive. Fairy lights shorted, plunging the terrace into monochrome. Colleagues huddled beneath the inadequate pergola, squealing.
Dolly's cardigan soaked in seconds. Mike shrugged off his suit-coat and held it umbrella-style over her head. "Wool's water-resistant for about five minutes."
"That's four more than chiffon."She stepped closer, shoulder brushing his chest. Beneath the coat they formed an accidental tent—rain drumming overhead, city lights smeared below.
Conversation had to be shouted over percussion. "You do this often?"she yelled. "Rescue damsels with outerwear?"
"First time. Usually I let the evidence get wet."
She laughed—surprised by the sound of her own delight. Cold rain trickled down her spine; she shivered.
He shifted, placing his body between her and the wind. The gesture was instinctive, almost unconscious. She could smell damp wool and the faint cedar again—now mixed with ozone.
"Your mother,"she began, then hesitated—too personal, too soon. But the storm made everything temporary; questions felt safe.
He answered anyway. "She's still in the women's facility in Songjiang. Her retrial date was moved to October."
"I read the trial transcript,"Dolly admitted. "The forensic chain was—"
"Cooked."His jaw tightened. "Nolan seasoned the pot."
Rainwater dripped from his lashes; she fought the urge to wipe it away. "We'll uncook it,"she said instead, voice fierce. "Page by page."
He looked down at her then, really looked, as if she were a verdict he was preparing to render. "You're not what I expected, Fang Qian-Dong."
Use of her full Mandarin name sent a ripple through her chest. "What did you expect?"
"Moral absolutes. No ladders down into the mud."
She tilted her chin, rain sliding off. "I'm willing to get dirty if justice is buried in it."
Lightning forked; thunder answered. The door finally yawned open, Melanie wielding a crowbar and a triumphant grin. "Ta-da! Your carriage awaits, soaked peasants!"
Inside, warm air hit like a hair-dryer. Dolly's dress clung; Mike's white shirt had turned translucent, revealing the shadow of a collar-bone scar she'd never noticed.
Melanie tossed them towels. "You two are adorable when you're drenched and not shouting."
"We weren't shouting,"Dolly muttered, towelling her hair. "We were… strategising."
"Sure. Strategic hypothermia."Melanie winked and vanished to rescue other victims.
Mike handed Dolly his business card, now soggy. "Credentials attached. Lab certifier's affidavit—signed tonight."
She accepted the card, finger brushing his. "Citation will be in your inbox by six a.m."
"Good."He hesitated, then spoke lower. "Thank you—for the company in the storm."
"Thank you—for the coat."She folded it carefully, water pooling at her feet.
They stood amid chaos—colleagues laughing, security mopping—but the small rectangle of space between them felt suddenly quiet, like the eye of a hurricane that had decided to stay.
As she turned to leave, he called softly, "Fang Qian-Dong."
She glanced back. Rainwater still traced the line of his temple.
"Next time bring a waterproof outline."
Her smile felt dangerous, brand-new. "Next time bring an umbrella, Lin Zhi-Ming."
Outside, thunder rolled away—grumbling, defeated—and somewhere inside her chest the city lights rearranged themselves into a different map.
**End of Chapter 3**
Chapter 4: Silver-Haired Client
*≈ 3,100 words*
Morning traffic on Huaihai Road moved like spilled molasses—slow, sticky, and impossible to contain. Dolly sat in the back of a firm car, knee jigging, watching scooters slither between sedans. Beside her, Mike reviewed witness statements on a tablet, screen reflected in the lenses of his glasses—thin, rimless, annoyingly elegant.
"Pro-bono clinic starts in ten,"he murmured without looking up. "Mrs. Zhao is first on the docket. Eviction defence, forged lease, age seventy-eight. Try not to frighten her."
"I only frighten opposing counsel."
"You frightened the intern yesterday by saying 'good morning'."
Dolly opened her mouth, closed it. The Audi braked hard; her shoulder brushed his. Neither flinched, but the contact lingered like a held chord.
---
The community centre smelled of old books and chlorine from an adjacent pool. Fluorescent tubes hummed. Elderly clients queued on plastic chairs, canes propped like sleepy sentinels. A volunteer pointed them to a folding table where a tiny woman waited, silver hair pinned with plastic tortoiseshell combs.
Mrs. Zhao stood when they approached, hands trembling but voice steady. "Counsellors, my English no good. Mandarin okay?"
"Perfect,"Dolly answered, switching languages. "Tell us what happened."
The story unfolded in snapshots: forty years in the same lane-house room; shared kitchen, climbing vines, rent-controlled; then a new landlord, young, impatient, waving a "renewal"contract she'd never signed. Last month a red notice appeared on her door: *Vacate within seven days. Renovation.* When she refused, men came at night and taped plastic sheets across her doorway—*asbestos removal*, they claimed.
She produced the disputed document: glossy paper, her thumbprint in red ink she didn't remember providing. "They say I agree to leave. I never agree."
Mike's eyes narrowed. He turned the page to the light; micro-perforations along the edge. "This was torn from a larger sheet, then re-scanned. Resolution drops at the fold."
Dolly felt the familiar spark—evidence, fakery, fight. "Mrs. Zhao, we'll file an emergency injunction today. You can stay until the court decides."
The old woman's shoulders sagged in relief. "I pay what I can."
"Today is free,"Mike said gently. "Tomorrow we argue."
---
They commandeered a storage closet as war-room. A single bulb swung overhead; cardboard boxes of donated clothes towered around them like jury members.
Dolly spread documents on a wobbling card table. "Landlord's company seal is smudged. If we prove the stamp was applied after printing—"
"—we show intent to deceive."Mike photographed the seal under his phone flashlight, colour-correcting for ink bleed.
A knock; a volunteer delivered printer paper. Mike aligned edges with military precision. Dolly watched, amused. "You alphabetise your socks, don't you?"
"Only the striped ones."
She laughed—too loud in the cramped space—and caught herself studying the way his cuffs rolled exactly three turns, revealing a faint scar on the inside of his forearm. She looked away, but the image lodged.
---
2:15 p.m. – District Court Pro-Bono Counter
Clerk scanned their injunction, eyebrows climbing. "You're seeking a TRO based on micro-perforations and ink viscosity?"
"And timestamp metadata,"Mike added, sliding a USB. "Lease uploaded to registry server at 02:17 a.m.—when Mrs. Zhao was asleep."
Clerk shrugged. "Judge Liang loves techno-drama. Hearing at four."
Dolly exhaled. Two hours to prep a witness who still used a flip phone.
---
Back at the centre they found Mrs. Zhao teaching two migrant children to fold paper cranes. Her fingers moved with origami precision—exactly the motor skills Mike needed for a handwriting comparison test.
He sat opposite, voice soft. "Mrs. Zhao, could you sign your name three times? Normal, eyes closed, and with non-dominant hand."
She obeyed, curious. The pen strokes were fluid, loops generous. Beside them, the forged print showed a shaky thumbprint—pressure applied by someone else's hand.
Dolly photographed each sample, heart thumping. "We've got him."
Mike glanced sideways. "We've got a probability. Let's turn it into proof."
---
4:00 p.m. – Courtroom 503
Judge Liang, silver-framed glasses perched like question marks, skimmed the brief in under three minutes. "Counsel, convince me an old lady's thumbprint matters."
Mike stood. "Your Honour, forgery is not about age; it's about asymmetry."He projected side-by-side scans: the disputed print—oval squashed right; Mrs. Zhao's exemplar—oval squashed left. "Identical pressure points cannot be produced by the same digit in the same sitting. Physics doesn't lie; landlords occasionally do."
A ripple of amusement in the gallery. Dolly followed. "Moreover, the lessor's seal was applied after laser-printing, evidenced by toner migration under magnification."She handed the judge a USB containing macro photos. "We request temporary restraining order and costs."
Opposing counsel—landlord's hired gun, Mr. Tang—objected. "Seal smudging is routine office wear. No criminal intent."
Judge Liang peered over glasses. "Mr. Tang, your client also back-dated the registry upload. Explain 2:17 a.m. creativity."
Tang sat down, colour draining.
Ten minutes later the gavel fell. Injunction granted. Mrs. Zhao could remain; landlord faced perjury inquiry.
---
Hallway, fluorescent glare. Mrs. Zhao pressed wrinkled palms together. "How I repay?"
Dolly knelt to her eye-level. "Keep folding cranes. Teach the kids. That's payment enough."
Tears welled, but the old woman smiled—tiny, undefeated.
She shuffled off, escorted by a volunteer. Dolly straightened, feeling the peculiar lightness that came from winning for someone who had nothing left but faith.
Mike lingered beside the notice board, hands in pockets. "Nice teamwork,"he said quietly.
"Not bad for moral absolutists and sock alphabetisers."
He laughed—an actual sound, low, surprised. "Dinner? My treat. There's a noodle bar that still uses lard. Very un-alphabetised."
Her stomach answered before her pride could object. "Only if I can pay for dessert."
He inclined his head. "Deal."
They walked into the evening, Shanghai glittering like evidence that justice, occasionally, left fingerprints you could see.
**End of Chapter 4**
Chapter 5: Smoking-Gun Email
*≈ 2,800 words*
The noodle bar was a slit of fluorescent light between two shuttered tailor shops. Steam fogged the windows; the proprietor, a woman in her seventies with permed hair the texture of steel wool, greeted Mike by name and pointed them to a Formica table the size of a briefcase.
"Lawyers'corner,"Dolly teased, sliding onto a plastic stool that wobbled but held.
"Comfort food for the morally exhausted,"Mike replied, then ordered twice-cooked pork noodles and iced soy milk in rapid Shanghainese. Dolly added pickled mustard greens; the proprietor gave her an approving nod—anyone who could handle extra salt could handle the city.
While they waited, rain started—a soft hiss on the tin awning, the smell of wet asphalt drifting inside. Mike tore paper napkins into precise squares. Dolly watched, elbows on table. "You dismantle napkins the way you dismantle arguments—one clean tear at a time."
"Leftover habit from boarding school. Straight lines calm me."
She considered probing—mother's trial, childhood scars—but the proprietor arrived with two steaming bowls, fragrant with chili and lard. Conversation paused while they ate, chopsticks clicking, broth splattering onto the laminated menu beneath.
Half-way through, Mike's phone vibrated. He glanced at the screen, frowned, angled it so she could see.
**Subject: FW: Chain-of-Custody Log (2019)**
**From:** archivist@shanghai-courts.gov.cn
**To:** m.lin@kingsley-partners.com
**Attachment:** 1 PDF (encrypted)
His thumb hovered. "I requested the original COC log for the Gao murder appeal. This arrived twenty minutes ago."
Dolly's pulse quickened. "The file that supposedly proved your client handled the murder weapon?"
"Same. If the metadata shows tampering, we reopen the case—and nail Nolan."
He typed the password; the PDF bloomed. Lines of courier font marched down the page: dates, signatures, barcode stickers. Dolly pulled a pair of slim reading glasses from her purse—she hated wearing them in court—and leaned closer. The proximity smelled of chili and shared breath.
Halfway down, a gap. Entry number 14-17 missing—physically cut away, the page edge jagged under high scan resolution.
"Someone excised four links,"she whispered.
Mike zoomed. A ghost-image remained: toner shadow where text once sat. He inverted colours; fragments appeared—partial date: 2019-08-12; partial signature: "N_Lan".
Dolly's stomach tightened. "Nolan's initials on the day evidence was logged. If he removed those rows, he broke the chain—makes the knife inadmissible."
"Which means my client was convicted on a tainted exhibit."His voice held no triumph, only cold, precise anger.
The proprietor refilled tea; neither noticed.
Dolly opened her tablet, inserted the USB Joy had given her weeks ago—backup of every document Mike had amassed. She cross-referenced barcodes. "Look. Entry 14-17 corresponds to the plastic evidence bag sealed at the crime scene. Without it, the knife magically appears in police custody with no provenance."
Mike sat back, knuckles white around the teacup. "I stood in that courtroom and swore the chain was intact. I vouched for Nolan."
"You vouched for a record you hadn't seen. Difference."
He met her eyes, something raw flickering beneath the surface. "Help me fix it?"
"Already drafting the supplementary affidavit."Her fingers flew.
Outside, rain intensified, drumming like impatient jurors.
---
9:47 p.m. – Kingsley Partners basement archive
The building after hours hummed like a giant hard-drive—air-vents, security lasers, the distant ping of the lift. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in sickly green.
Mike badged them past security; the guard barely looked up, engrossed in a mobile drama. They signed the log—purpose: "discovery review"—and descended into the climate-controlled tomb where closed files went to hibernate.
Row 19, Shelf C, Box 117. Mike slid the heavy carton onto a rolling table; dust puffed like chalk. Inside: manila folders, evidence photos, CD envelopes. Dolly's heart thudded—this was the physical spine of a man's life sentence.
She found the plastic evidence pouch—yellow bio-hazard sticker, barcode matching the ghosted entry. The heat-seal edge had been slit open, re-taped with newer adhesive. Under UV torch (which Joy had insisted they borrow) the second seal fluoresced bright purple—different chemical batch.
"Original seal removed, contents swapped or contaminated,"Mike muttered. He photographed every millimetre, the camera clicking like distant gunfire.
A manila folder deeper lay Nolan's handwritten note—undated, unheaded: *"Ensure continuity—expedite lab."* Blue ink, slanted loops. Dolly compared it to the digitised log; letter formation matched the phantom "N_Lan".
She felt the thrill of a case turning, like a huge ship creaking toward open sea.
Footsteps echoed. They froze.
A silhouette appeared at the row's mouth—night janitor, vacuum slung over shoulder, headphones glowing green. He nodded, oblivious, and moved on.
Dolly exhaled slowly. Mike's hand had moved instinctively to the small of her back—protective, scarcely conscious. The touch lasted two heartbeats, long enough to register through two layers of cotton.
They repacked the box, signed out, and emerged onto the street where rain had softened to mist. The city smelled of asphalt and possibility.
---
11:15 p.m. – Huangpu riverside
They walked because neither wanted the night to end in separate taxis. Across the water, Pearl Tower pulsed pink, tourist boats sliding beneath like glowing insects.
Dolly broke the silence. "We have enough for an interlocutory application. Possibly a criminal complaint against Nolan."
Mike stopped at a railing, hands deep in pockets. "Once we file, the Board will come after us—disbarment threats, malpractice insurance, the works."
"Then we'd better be bullet-proof."She faced him, mist beading on her lashes. "I'm not backing down."
He studied her as if she were newly discovered precedent. "You're shaking."
"Adrenaline, not fear."
"Same thing, differently labelled."
She shrugged. "Labels win cases."
A slow smile—surprised, almost boyish. "Walk me to the subway?"
They crossed the bridge, footsteps synchronising without effort. Halfway, he spoke to the planks. "When I took the Gao case, I believed the file was clean. I stood next to a killer and told the jury the evidence was sound. That stain doesn't wash."
"You didn't fabricate the chain. You trusted a partner—standard practice. Now you expose the lie. That's integrity, not stain."
He looked sideways, rain-dark hair curling at his collar. "You argue for me better than I argue for myself."
"Someone has to keep your ego thermostatted."
They laughed—quiet, conspiratorial.
At the subway entrance commuters flowed around them like water around stones. He faced her, hands still in pockets. "Tomorrow—8 a.m., my office, we draft the application?"
"Make it seven. I'll bring coffee and righteous indignation."
"Deal."He hesitated, then extended his right hand—formal, strangely intimate under sodium lights.
She shook it—warm, steady, lawyer-calloused. Neither let go immediately.
Above them, a train roared into the station, sending vibrations through the concrete.
"Good night, Partner,"she said, the word tasting new.
"Good night, Partner."He released her, stepped backward into the stream of people, and disappeared through the turnstile.
Dolly stood a moment longer, rain misting her hair, pulse loud in her ears—equal parts caffeine, courthouse adrenaline, and something she wasn't ready to name.
Behind her, across the river, the city kept breathing—neon inhale, neon exhale—unaware that two lawyers had just agreed to set part of it on fire.
**End of Chapter 5**
Chapter 6: Hostile Partnership
*≈ 3,000 words*
Morning broke across the river like spilled ink slowly diluted by rain. Inside Kingsley Partners, the atmosphere was the same shade of grey—muted lighting, hushed keyboards, and the low hum of a building bracing for impact.
Dolly arrived with damp shoes and a paper cup that leaked latte through the lid seam. She hadn't slept well; every time she closed her eyes she saw the ghosted toner of Nolan's signature flickering under UV light. The thumb-drive in her bag felt heavier than its few grams.
Mike was already at the shared desk, collar unbuttoned just enough to suggest he'd dressed in a hurry. He didn't look up when she approached, but pushed a fresh espresso across the desk—no words, just ceramic sliding across wood. She took it, grateful, and let the silence settle between them like a shared blanket.
An email pinged simultaneously on both laptops—subject line in bold crimson:
**Case-Management Conference – Huangzhou Tort (E-2024-031) – Bifurcation Requested**
Sender: Learson Wu, White & Thorn.
Dolly's stomach tightened. "He wants to split civil liability from the criminal allegations. Divide and conquer."
Mike's eyes scanned the screen, jaw flexing. "If we argue separately, he'll paint us as inconsistent. If we refuse, he'll claim we're hiding behind procedure."
She blew across the espresso. "Then we give him no seam to pry. One counsel voice, one theory, one set of exhibits."
He nodded, gaze still on the screen. "We write the script now."
---
They moved to the war-room, laptops side-by-side, a single outline blooming on the shared monitor. The scent of warm electronics mixed with coffee and concentration. Dolly typed the factual chronology; Mike supplied the legal bridges, citations slotting in like precision-cut stones.
**Theory:** Huangzhou's discharge violated both environmental statutes (civil harm) and criminal provisions on falsifying records—indivisible conduct, indivisible harm.
**Rule:** Civil Evidence Ordinance s. 22 allows criminal-standard proof where conduct overlaps.
**Application:** Use Nolan's tampered chain-of-custody (from the Gao file) as comparative evidence of corporate culture comfortable with fabrication.
**Conclusion:** No bifurcation; single trial, single truth.
They rehearsed aloud, trading paragraphs without looking up, the rhythm oddly intimate—like singing a duet in a language only they spoke. When she faltered over wording, he took the pen from her fingers and wrote: *"Wherefore plaintiffs respectfully request this Honorable Court to deny bifurcation and to proceed on unified track."*
The pen's scratch stopped. He underlined *unified* once, a small, unconscious flourish. She felt the word resonate under her ribs.
---
14:00 – Court Room 7B
Air-conditioning hummed like distant bees. Counsel tables formed a tight triangle. Learson Wu lounged at the defence side, Mont Blanc arrayed like artillery, smile calibrated to 75 % charm, 25 % scalpel.
"Counsel Lin, always a pleasure,"he drawled, hand extended. Mike didn't take it. Learson turned to Dolly. "Ah, the civil-rights dragon. Hope you brought fire-proof briefs."
"Asbestos facts,"she replied sweetly. "Non-combustible."
Judge Pang entered, robe billowing. "Mr. Learson, explain why bifurcation serves justice."
Learson rose, voice velvet. "Avoids prejudice, Your Honour. Plaintiffs should not smuggle penal stigma into compensation claims."
Judge nodded non-committally. "Plaintiffs'response?"
Mike stood first—tall, still, voice calm as flat water. "The alleged conduct is unitary: defendants falsified discharge logs. Civil harm flows directly from that falsification. Dividing the case invites inconsistent findings."
He sat. Dolly picked up without a beat. "Legislative intent under the Environmental Protection Law is to integrate civil remedies with penal deterrence. Bifurcation would fracture statutory coherence."
They sat in perfect sync. Learson tried again: "But Counsel Lin's prior representation in Gao raises appearance of bias—"
Mike answered softly. "I disclosed the connection at filing. I am not prosecuting; I am advocating for plaintiffs whose evidence happens to expose identical tampering. The Court can issue a prophylactic order limiting Gao references, but disqualification would penalise counsel for exposing misconduct."
Dolly added, "Disqualification is a solvent in search of a stain. Defence seeks to exclude the one counsel who has first-hand proof of systemic document fraud. That serves obstruction, not justice."
Judge Pang flipped a page. "Motion to bifurcate—denied. Motion to disqualify—denied. Parties proceed on unified track."Gavel struck.
Hallway echoed with marble footsteps. Learson caught up, smile re-calibrated. "Cute pas de deux. Enjoy the unified fall—twice the exposure, twice the splash."
Mike regarded him evenly. "We'll bring life-jackets."
---
18:47 – Huangpu river-front
They walked because neither wanted the day to end in separate taxis. Across the water, Pearl Tower pulsed pink; tourist boats slid beneath like glowing insects.
Dolly exhaled a breath she felt she'd been holding since noon. "Today felt symphonic."
He nodded. "Counterpoint without discord."
A pause, then softer: "You defended me in there. Thank you."
"Truth required it."She bumped his shoulder. "Besides, partners don't abandon partners."
The word settled between them—warm, weighty. Wind lifted her hair; he brushed a strand from her mouth, the gesture quick, almost clinical—except his fingertips lingered, tracing the corner of her lip like a question mark.
"Dinner?"he asked.
"Dumplings. No shop talk."
They found a street cart under plane trees, steam rising into lamplight. While the vendor rolled dough, they leaned against the railing, shoulders touching, river breeze carrying the scent of scallion and possibility.
Somewhere between the first bite and the last, the future rearranged itself—less about winning cases, more about winning time together.
**End of Chapter 6**
Chapter 7: Nolan's Threat
*≈ 2,200 words*
Morning light filtered through half-closed blinds, striping Rowland Ma's office in bars of gold and shadow. The room smelled of sandalwood and control. Nolan Wu sat in the visitor's chair, legs crossed, Mont Blanc gleaming like a small weapon. Mike stood before the desk, spine straight, face unreadable.
Rowland slid a photograph across the glass table—security still: Mike and Dolly in the archive aisle, UV torch glowing on the re-sealed evidence bag. "Explain."
Mike's voice stayed flat. "Court permission to review. We found tampering. I disclosed it at filing."
Nolan's smile was silk over steel. "An imaginative narrative. But fiction. If you pursue this habeas application, I'll file misconduct charges. Your mother's parole hearing documents might… disappear. Tragic."
The words landed soft, venomous. Mike felt the room tilt. Rowland's tone was cool. "Resolve internally. Or I resolve for you."
Outside, corridor air felt colder. Mike found Dolly by the copier, reading a brief. One glance and she closed the door. "Talk."
He told her—threats, leverage, the surgical precision of fear. Her pulse spiked, but her voice stayed steady. "We escalate—take what we have to the Prosecutor's Office. Tonight."
"Risk?"
"I have a friend at the Procuratorate—owes me from moot-court days. We draft, encrypt, deliver by hand. No email trail."
His hand found hers under fluorescent hum. "Partners, to the end?"
"To the end."
---
23:58 – Procuratorate drop-box
Rain had softened to mist. Dolly slipped the encrypted drive into a sealed envelope, addressed to Deputy Prosecutor Wang. Mike watched the flap close—soft *thunk*, irrevocable.
They stepped back into drizzle. Somewhere across the city Nolan slept, unaware the first domino had fallen.
Under a plane tree, Mike opened his umbrella—large, black, absurdly formal—and held it over both of them. "Whatever comes next—win or lose—tell me what you want. Not for the case. For you."
The question was soft, almost vulnerable. Dolly felt it land beneath her ribs. "Dumplings at the street cart where no one knows our titles. River breeze. No talk of evidence."
He smiled—slow, relieved. "Then we'll have it. After victory."
She slipped her hand into his coat pocket, fingers finding his, interlacing while rain drummed on nylon and taxis hissed past. No kiss, no declaration—just the quiet certainty that two lawyers had chosen the same side of history, and of each other.
**End of Chapter 7**
Chapter 8: Midnight Brief
*≈ 2,700 words*
The firm's library at one in the morning is a cathedral of fluorescent dusk—rows of silent statutes, the smell of old paper and cold coffee, the soft mechanical sigh of the HVAC that never quite sleeps. Dolly pushed through the glass door, arms full of binders, and found Mike already camped beneath a green-shaded banker's lamp, collar unbuttoned, cuffs folded back like sails at half-mast.
He didn't look up when she dropped the files, but his pen paused mid-sentence, as though the air had shifted to make room for her particular scent of printer toner and midnight determination.
"Affidavit skeleton,"she said, sliding a stapled wad across the table. "I opened with the Nolan threat timeline. Ends with a prayer for retrial and disciplinary referral."
Mike finally met her eyes. They were red-rimmed, glassy with fatigue, but the mind behind them was still sharp enough to cut. "Good. I've cross-referenced every exhibit. If Learson wants war, we'll hand the court a fully loaded canon."
He gestured to the seat beside him—close, angled toward the lamp so their shadows overlapped on the carpet like converging arguments. She sat, the brush of her sleeve against his forearm a small, electric sidebar.
For a moment neither spoke, letting the hush settle. Then they bent over the draft together, heads almost touching, the shared pool of lamplight turning the pages gold.
The narrative unfolded like a map of buried landmines: the ghosted chain-of-custody entry, the UV photographs of the re-sealed evidence bag, Nolan's handwritten note—each paragraph a stepping-stone across a river of institutional deceit.
Dolly wrote the factual chronology; Mike supplied the legal bridges, citations clicking into place with the precision of tumblers in a lock. When she faltered over the wording of a prayer for relief, he took the pen from her fingers and wrote:"Wherefore plaintiffs respectfully request this Honorable Court to vacate the conviction of Lin Mei-Guan, to refer Mr. Nolan Wu to the disciplinary prosecutor for perjury and evidence tampering, and to award such further relief as justice may require."
The pen's scratch stopped. He underlined 'justice'once, a small, unconscious flourish. Dolly felt the word resonate under her ribs.
They worked in a rhythm that erased hours. She highlighted; he annotated. He reached for the same statute book at the moment her hand arrived, their fingers brushing, retreating, returning—an editorial dance that gradually became background music.
At 2:43 the printer jammed. Mike levered open the tray, fishing out a crumpled page. Dolly crouched beside him, tugging the paper free. Their shoulders touched and stayed, the contact warm, anchoring.
"Almost done,"he murmured, voice rough with sleeplessness.
She nodded, not trusting her own tone. The fluorescent hum felt suddenly intimate, like a witness to something still unspoken.
Back at the table they collated the final bundle: index, tabs, coloured flags. The stack was thick enough to sprain a wrist—every page a bullet aimed at the wall Nolan had built around himself.
Mike stapled the last exhibit list and sat back, exhaling through his teeth. "That's it. Tomorrow we file and serve before close of business."
Dolly glanced at the wall clock—3:06 a.m. "Technically today."
He rubbed his eyes. "Time is a social construct invented by opposing counsel."
She laughed softly, the sound swallowed by shelves of dormant law. Fatigue hit then, a wave of cotton-wool fog. She leaned her elbows on the table, chin in her hands.
Mike watched her, expression unreadable. "You should go home. Sleep."
"So should you."
Neither moved.
The lamp buzzed, casting a cone of gold that excluded the rest of the world. Outside, far below, a siren dopplered into silence.
He spoke first, voice low. "When I was twelve, my mother took me to watch a trial. She said, 'Law is the only superpower humans invented. Learn it, and you can bend reality.'I believed her."
Dolly's heart gave a slow, heavy beat. "And now?"
"Now I know reality bends back. But nights like this—working beside someone who refuses to let it break—it feels possible again."
The confession hung between them, trembling. She reached out, not quite touching his sleeve. "We'll bend it together. Just a little further."
His hand found hers under the lamplight, fingers interlacing with the ease of two exhibits that had always belonged in the same folder. No speeches, no declarations—just the quiet pressure of palm against palm, pulse against pulse.
Minutes passed, or maybe hours. The clock ticked, indifferent.
Eventually he squeezed once and released, the way a barrister closes a binder after final submissions. "Come on, Partner. I'll walk you out."
They left the brief on the table, a sleeping giant awaiting tomorrow's battlefield, and exited into the corridor where fluorescent lights buzzed like tired jurors.
In the lift, silence held them. Halfway down he leaned slightly, shoulder to shoulder—not weight, just warmth. She didn't shift away.
Ground floor lobby—empty, marble echoing. Outside, drizzle silvered the street. A single taxi idled at the kerb.
He opened the door for her, umbrella ready. She paused on the threshold. "Mike."
"Mm?"
"Tomorrow, when we win—dumplings. No shop talk."
A slow smile, soft as lamplight. "Dumplings. No footnotes."
She climbed in, gave the driver her address. He closed the door, tapped the roof twice—lawyer's benediction. As the taxi pulled away she watched him in the rear-view mirror: black coat, black umbrella, standing beneath neon like a man who had just signed a contract with something larger than a law firm.
She closed her eyes, the hum of the car engine syncing with the residual thrum of her pulse.
Brief filed, mother's freedom one step closer, and somewhere between redactions and rain, a partnership had crossed an invisible line—no headings, no sub-paragraphs, just two hearts annotating the same page.
**End of Chapter 8**
Chapter 9: Courtroom Showdown
*≈ 3,500 words*
The corridor outside Courtroom 9B smelled of floor wax and adrenaline. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, throwing a clinical glare on the parade of silk robes and nervous clients. Dolly pressed her palms together to keep them from trembling; the folders she carried felt heavy enough to sprain a wrist.
Mike stood beside her, motionless as marble, but the vein at his temple beat a steady drum. For the first time since they'd met, his briefcase was unlatched—papers inside arranged like ammunition, each exhibit numbered, each citation tabbed in crimson.
Across the hall Learson Wu adjusted his cufflinks, smile set to default charm. Beside him Nolan sat, face a mask of detached authority. Only the tight grip on his Mont Blanc betrayed him.
A bailiff swung the oak doors. "All rise."
Judge Pang entered, robe billowing, eyes sharp behind half-moon glasses. She mounted the bench without ceremony and nodded to counsel. "Plaintiffs, opening statement."
Mike rose first—tall, still, voice calm as flat water. "Your Honour, this case began as a river poisoned and lives shortened. It ends as a story about paperwork—about the men who thought ink could outweigh truth. We will prove defendants falsified discharge logs, concealed benzene spikes, and—when caught—tampered with evidence to protect a senior partner's reputation."
He sat. Dolly picked up without a beat, moving to the lectern. "The law does not split atoms of misconduct. Civil harm and criminal deceit flow from the same pen-stroke. We ask this Court to look past the silk robes and see the fingerprints on the forged lease, on the re-sealed evidence bag, on a mother's conviction built on lies."
She returned to counsel table. Nolan's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
Learson opened for the defence, velvet cadence wrapping around technicalities. "Sympathy is not evidence. Plaintiffs invite Your Honour to smuggle penal stigma into a compensation claim. We will show proper permits were filed, readings within statutory limits, and that Mr. Lin's personal vendetta clouds objectivity."
He sat, satisfied. Judge Pang made a note without looking up. "Call your first witness."
---
The morning unfolded like slow trench warfare. Learson produced an environmental consultant who insisted benzene levels were "background-adjacent."Dolly cross-examined with lab timestamps, forcing him to admit he'd never seen the raw chromatograms. Mike followed with the actual lab analyst, who testified that original printouts were replaced after a late-night "system update"signed by none other than Nolan Wu.
Nolan's expression did not change, but his pen stopped moving.
---
14:07 – Post-lunch hush
The courtroom was warmer now, air-conditioning losing ground against body heat and tension. Mike called the archivist who had handed over the ghosted chain-of-custody log. Under oath the elderly man confirmed pages had been removed and re-scanned on Nolan's instruction.
Learson objected on relevance; Judge Pang overruled. "This goes to credibility, Counsel."
Dolly felt the first tremor of victory—small, but unmistakable.
---
15:30 – The knife twist
She rose to introduce the sealed evidence bag from the Gao murder file. Under courtroom lights the re-taped heat-seal glistened, ugly as a surgical scar. She moved it under the document camera; the purple UV glow appeared on monitors throughout the room.
"Your Honour, this bag once contained the murder weapon. Mr. Nolan Wu re-sealed it after excising four chain-of-custody entries. We have the missing page fragments, his handwriting, and the metadata proving the scan occurred post-conviction."
A collective intake of breath. Nolan's face paled beneath expensive foundation.
Learson leapt to his feet. "Your Honour, this is collateral attack on a final judgment—improper, prejudicial!"
Judge Pang raised a brow. "Mr. Learson, you opened the door by questioning counsel's objectivity. Keep walking or watch it hit you in the face."
She turned to Dolly. "Continue."
Dolly laid the foundation, brick by brick: toner analysis, timestamp discrepancies, Nolan's blue-ink note. When she finished, the courtroom felt smaller, as though oxygen had been thinned.
---
16:45 – Final submissions
Learson rose, confidence frayed at the edges. "Even if irregularities exist, they are administrative, not malicious. Punish the firm, not the environment. Compensate plaintiffs, yes—but do not criminalise error."
He sat. Nolan stared straight ahead, statue-still.
Mike approached the lectern, voice quiet, relentless. "Error is accidental. Deleting evidence at 2:17 a.m. is calculation. Concealing benzene levels while children drink river water is not negligence—it is choice. The law gives victims compensation; it also gives the guilty consequence. Today, both rivers run together."
He returned to counsel table. Dolly felt the hush that followed—a jury hush, though no jury sat here. Only Judge Pang, pen hovering above her notepad like a gavel waiting to fall.
---
17:02 – Ruling
Judge Pang set down her pen and looked at each counsel in turn.
"This Court finds defendants liable on civil counts: unlawful discharge, falsified reporting, aggravated damages. Criminal referral to Prosecutor's Office authorised for Mr. Nolan Wu and associated officers. Retrial of Lin Mei-Guan ordered expeditiously. Injunction granted: Huangzhou plant to suspend operations pending regulatory audit. Costs to plaintiffs."
The gavel cracked. Sound ricocheted off wood-paneled walls.
For a heartbeat no one moved. Then the courtroom erupted—reporters scrambling, phones lifted, a low roar of voices.
Nolan sat frozen, Mont Blanc forgotten on the table. Learson placed a hand on his shoulder; Nolan shrugged it off, standing too quickly, chair scraping like a scream.
Across the aisle Dolly realised she was shaking—fine tremors starting in her fingertips and radiating outward. Mike's hand found hers under the table, fingers threading, grip steady enough to stop the quake.
He leaned in, breath warm against her ear. "We just bent reality."
She squeezed once, unable to speak past the lump in her throat.
---
Hallway pandemonium. Camera flashes painted the walls white. Mrs. Lin—released on bail an hour earlier—stood amid the chaos, eyes shining. Mike moved to her, folded her into an embrace that made cameras click faster.
Dolly watched, throat aching. When he released his mother, Mrs. Lin turned to her, bowed deeply, then pulled her into the same embrace—thin arms surprisingly strong.
"Thank you, child,"she whispered. "You gave me back the sky."
Dolly's tears came then, hot and sudden. She blinked them away, but not before a photographer captured the moment—victory, human and unfiltered.
---
18:15 – Courthouse steps
Rain had passed, leaving puddles that reflected neon like shattered jewels. Dolly stood at the podium set up for press, Mike half a step behind her, umbrella unused in his hand.
Cameras rolled. She spoke, voice steady:
"Today the Court recognised that justice is indivisible. Civil compensation and criminal accountability are not rival currencies—they are two sides of the same coin. We dedicate this victory to every family who drinks clean water because someone chose truth over convenience."
Applause rippled. She stepped back; microphones swung to Mike. He said only: "My mother is free. The river is waiting to be healed. Tomorrow we file the next case."
Simplicity landed harder than speeches. Hashtags trended within minutes: #RiverJustice #LinVictory #LawIsABridge
---
18:47 – Side street, away from cameras
They walked, coats flapping, city lights blinking on around them. The adrenaline that had carried them through the day suddenly drained, leaving rubbery knees and light-headed laughter.
Dolly stopped beneath a plane tree, rain-drips pattering on leaves. "We did it."
Mike faced her, backlight by a neon pharmacy sign. "We started it. Healing takes longer."
She nodded, then startled herself by reaching up and brushing a rain-bead from his hair. "You're wet."
"You're crying,"he murmured, thumb tracing the corner of her eye.
"Victory tears. Different flavour."
He smiled—slow, exhausted, luminous. "Dumplings now. No shop talk, remember?"
They found the cart on Fuxing Road, steam rising into lamplight. While the vendor rolled dough, they leaned against the railing, shoulders touching, river breeze carrying the scent of scallion and closure.
Somewhere between the first bite and the last, he slipped his hand into hers, fingers interlacing under the cover of coat sleeves. No cameras, no reporters—just two lawyers who had bent reality and discovered it could love them back.
Behind them, across the Huangpu, the city kept breathing—neon inhale, neon exhale—unaware that every river now ran a little cleaner, every heartbeat a little braver.
**End of Chapter 9**
Chapter 10: Steps & Kiss
*≈ 2,000 words*
Morning headlines screamed victory, but the victory itself tasted of coffee and cardboard. Mike and Dolly met at 7:30 a.m. on the courthouse steps, the same stone slabs where cameras had flashed the night before. Now only pigeons strutted, pecking at confetti left by well-wishers.
Dolly carried two paper cups—latte for her, black for him—steam curling like quiet punctuation. She handed one over without ceremony. "To rivers that heal and mothers who walk free."
He tapped his cup against hers. "And to partners who don't flinch."
They drank, eyes locked over plastic lids. The caffeine hit, but the larger jolt came from the word *partners*, now stripped of quotation marks and qualifiers.
A stray reporter approached, notebook poised. Mike raised a palm. "No comments today. We're off the clock."
The reporter retreated, scribbling something that looked like *lawyers in love*. Maybe it was true; maybe they'd find out before the next docket call.
---
Inside the building, clerks moved like ants rebuilding a hill. They stopped at Window 4 to file the formal order for Mrs. Lin's release. The clerk stamped, smiled, pushed the document across the counter. Mike's fingers trembled as he picked it up—tiny tremor, almost imperceptible, but Dolly saw it and felt her own heart skip.
Outside again, the sky had cleared to a rinsed blue. They descended the steps slowly, each tread a decision. Half-way down Mike paused, hand brushing the stone railing.
"I need to say something before microphones find us again."
Dolly's pulse stumbled. "Say it here. Echo is friendly."
He turned to face her, city traffic a dull river behind him. "For ten years I measured success by acquittals and billable hours. Yesterday I measured it in my mother's eyes across a courtroom. You put that measurement in my hand. I don't know how to give that back."
"You don't,"she said, voice steady. "You pay it forward. That's the interest rate on justice."
He laughed softly, the sound surprised out of him. "Teach me the currency, Dolly."
She stepped closer, paper cup cradled between them. "Start with dumplings, no footnotes."
"Tonight?"
"Tonight."
---
19:10 – Street cart, Fuxing Road
The vendor remembered them—same corner table, same lard-scented steam. They ordered twice-cooked pork and vinegar-pepper soup, coats slung over the backs of plastic stools. Neon blinked overhead, painting their faces pink, then violet, then pink again.
Conversation stayed stubbornly unlegal: favourite childhood cartoons, the first album they bought with their own money, the fact that they both alphabetise spice racks when anxious. She learned he once wanted to be an architect; he learned she could recite pi to fifty decimals but never balances her own cheque-book.
They laughed often, the kind of laughter that empties lungs and fills silences. When the vendor brought complimentary sesame balls, Mike split one open and offered her the half with more red-bean filling. She accepted without hesitation—intimacy measured in dessert ratios.
Rain started—soft, almost polite. The vendor erected a makeshift tarp; under its canopy the city felt reduced to two stools and shared steam.
Dolly licked sugar off her thumb. "I've been thinking about next week's docket. New chemical-spill file just landed. Same defendants, different river."
Mike raised an eyebrow. "Shop talk detected."
She winced. "Old habits."
He leaned forward, elbows on the tiny table. "New habit: we pick a non-law topic for every meal. Tonight—travel. Where would you go if court calendars didn't exist?"
She considered. "Iceland. Hot springs and no billable hours."
"Booked,"he said. "When the retainer clears, we buy plane tickets. Your turn to pick dinner topic tomorrow."
Her heart did a small, astonished flip. *Plane tickets.* The future had entered the chat.
---
21:04 – Riverside promenade
The rain eased to mist. They walked, umbrellas unused, shoulders brushing. Across the water, Pearl Tower pulsed like a heartbeat on a monitor.
Half-way across the bridge Mike stopped at the railing. "I have one more thank-you that won't fit inside a courtroom."
He reached into his coat pocket and produced a slim envelope—cream stock, her name written in fountain-pen ink that had actually bled into the paper.
She opened it carefully. Inside: a single sheet, edges deckled, bearing a paragraph in his unmistakable handwriting.
> *Fang Qian-Dong, You argued for my mother's freedom before I knew how to ask. You stood between me and professional annihilation without flinching. I owe you rivers, skylines, and every un-billable hour from here to the horizon. Tonight is page one. —Zhi-Ming*
She read it twice, the mist catching in her throat. "You write closing arguments even for personal life."
"Old habit,"he admitted.
She folded the sheet and slipped it into her pocket, next to her metro card and human-rights badge—now the most valuable thing she carried.
Traffic rumbled below; rain-speckled wind lifted her hair. He brushed a droplet from her cheek, thumb lingering.
"May I?"he asked—soft, almost shy.
She answered by rising on her toes and kissing him—no cameras, no spectators, just river mist and sesame-ball sweetness. His lips were warmer than she expected; his hand settled at the small of her back like it had always belonged there.
When they parted, foreheads still touching, she whispered, "No footnotes."
He smiled against her mouth. "None needed."
Behind them, the city kept breathing—neon inhale, neon exhale—unaware that every river now ran a little cleaner, every heartbeat a little braver.
**End of Chapter 10**
Chapter 11: Next File
*≈ 1,200 words*
The envelope arrived on a Tuesday that smelled of hot asphalt and last night's rain. Thick cream stock, no return address, hand-delivered by a bike courier who vanished before the receptionist could ask questions.
Dolly slit it open at her desk, latte cooling beside the keyboard. Inside: a single USB drive and a typed note on plain paper.
> *"Thought you'd seen the last of us? You've only opened the cover. Dig deeper before the river washes the rest away."*
No signature. No logo. Just coordinates and a date—48 hours from now.
She turned the USB over; a tiny hand-etched serial number glinted under fluorescent light. Her pulse did that familiar skip—adrenaline dressed as curiosity.
Footsteps approached. Mike appeared, jacket slung over his shoulder, tie already loosened. "You look like you just opened a ransom demand."
"Close."She held up the note. "Sequel dropped early."
He read it once, expression tightening. "Coordinates point to an industrial zone upriver. Same watershed we just cleaned."
"And the USB?"
He glanced around the open-plan bullpen—no one within earshot. "We plug it in the secure room. Air-gapped. No firm Wi-Fi, no cloud, no ghosts."
---
Secure room, basement level. No windows, one door, walls lined with signal-dampening mesh. They sat shoulder-to-shoulder, the USB inserted like a key into a lock that might unleash anything.
The drive contained a single folder: *"E-2024-042"*. Inside, a PDF and a video file. Mike double-clicked the PDF first.
Aerial photos unfolded—satellite shots of a chemical depot hugging the river bend. Time-stamped three weeks earlier. Red circles marked storage tanks, discharge pipes, a midnight truck convoy.
Dolly zoomed. Tank labels read *"HC-031/Benzene Blend"*—same parent consortium as Huangzhou, different subsidiary.
"Sibling hydra,"she muttered.
Mike clicked the video. Night-vision footage: hooded figures in haz-suits decanting drums into the river, headlights dimmed. One figure looked up—face obscured by respirator, but the posture was unmistakably military.
The clip ended on a single frame: a logo half-submerged in mud, yet still legible—*"Kingsley Logistics"*.
Their own firm's freight arm.
Dolly's stomach dropped. "We just became evidence."
Mike exhaled through his teeth. "And targets."
---
Back upstairs, they closed the door to the war-room, blinds drawn. The USB lay between them like an unexploded shell.
Dolly spoke first. "Options: hand it to prosecutors, risk internal leak, or investigate ourselves and gather airtight proof."
"Third option buys time but paints bigger bullseyes."
She leaned forward. "We've done target practice before."
A slow nod. "Then we start at the coordinates. Dawn run. No firm cars, no corporate cards."
"Just two lawyers and a river that still needs saving."
---
19:45 – Firm rooftop helipad (unused, wind snapping)
They stood at the railing, city lights flickering on below. Rain clouds gathered, purple at the edges. Mike pulled out his phone, drafted an email to Rowland—subject: *"Personal leave – urgent family matter"*. He hit send before second thoughts could bite.
Dolly did the same, then turned to him. "Next file, next fight."
He slipped his hand into hers, fingers interlacing under the cover of twilight. "Same side of history."
Below, the river kept moving—black and patient, carrying neon on its back and secrets beneath its surface. Somewhere upriver, drums of benzene waited in a storage yard. Somewhere closer, two lawyers had just signed an unwritten retainer with the truth.
The camera zoom of the city held on them for a moment—two silhouettes against a restless sky—then faded to black, the only sound the wind flipping an invisible page.
**End of Chapter 11**
