Chapter 3: The Lone Wolf
In less than fifteen minutes, Liao Zhijie called with just one brief sentence: “Agree to the settlement of 21 million.” Qi Song didn’t care whether he had come to his senses on his own or under pressure from Jiang Yuan’s side. He simply instructed Yang Jiayue to return to the mediation room and accept Guan Lan’s offer, insisting that the court clerk draft the mediation agreement immediately and serve it on the spot. The lawyers representing both parties signed and sealed the document on behalf of their clients, resolving the matter thoroughly and cleanly. By the time they left the courthouse, it was already past six in the evening. The summer days in the south of the Yangtze were long, and though the sun still blazed brightly, there wasn’t the slightest hint of dusk on the horizon. Yet, the evening rush hour had already taken hold, filling the streets with a dense crush of people. Qi Song and Yang Jiayue had arrived separately that afternoon, and coincidentally or not, both had parked their cars in an empty lot next to a nearby vegetable market. The Southwest District Courthouse had been built over twenty years ago, during a time when imitating foreign architecture was all the rage. Like everywhere else, the courthouse had adopted a style reminiscent of the U.S. Capitol—commonly nicknamed the “Little White House”—though nowadays it still looked grand, its parking spaces were sorely insufficient. With only narrow alleys surrounding it, most lawyers working there ended up parking in the vegetable market’s lot. Over time, it became so common that it was even mentioned in the local lawyers’ survival guide. As they crossed the street to retrieve their cars, Qi Song noticed Guan Lan walking ahead of them, also heading toward the market, her hands still full of belongings. Halfway there, her phone must have vibrated in her pocket—she froze in hesitation for a second before realizing she had no free hands to answer it. Resigned, she continued forward. When she reached a gray-green Škoda, she opened the door, tossed in her laptop and handbag, and only then pulled out her phone to check. Qi Song’s car was parked on the other side, separated by two rows. For some inexplicable reason, his gaze kept drifting in her direction as he walked. Yang Jiayue, however, misread his silence completely. Trying to break the ice, he said cheerfully, “Lawyer Qi got a new car, huh?” Snapping out of his thoughts, Qi Song joked half-heartedly, “Thanks to you, the next one might have to be a Wuling Hongguang.” What was meant as an offhand comment struck a nerve with Yang Jiayue, who visibly deflated. “I—I was too optimistic when discussing the case with the client,” he admitted, chastened. “I didn’t investigate the key evidence thoroughly enough. To be honest, you warned me about both, but I messed up.” Seeing him like this, Qi Song softened. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. The cards just weren’t in your favor this time, and you were up against an old hand. Losing to her isn’t any reason for shame.” Yang Jiayue looked even more contrite, likely recalling his earlier dismissive remarks about Guan Lan—just a woman, a part-time lecturer at the Political Science and Law School, who moonlighted at a small law firm. Qi Song was terrible at this kind of thing. The more he tried to console, the worse his co-counsel seemed to feel. With a sigh, he added, “You transitioned from non-litigation work, didn’t you?”

In less than fifteen minutes, Liao Zhijie called back with just one simple line: “We agree to the 21 million settlement.”

Qi Song didn’t care whether he’d come to his senses on his own or if Jiang Yuan had applied pressure—he simply instructed Yang Jiayue to return to the mediation room, accept Guan Lan’s offer, and requested the court clerk to prepare the mediation agreement immediately for on-the-spot delivery.

Both attorneys signed on behalf of their respective clients, and thus the matter was resolved – thoroughly and completely.

Leaving the courthouse, it was already past six in the evening. In the height of summer south of the Yangtze River, the sun set late, still casting brilliant rays everywhere, with not a hint of dusk on the horizon. Yet the evening rush hour arrived as usual, the streets densely packed with people.

Qi Song and Yang Jiayue had come separately in the afternoon, both parking their cars in an empty lot near a vegetable market—not by coincidence.

The Southwest District Court had been built over twenty years ago. At that time, imitating foreign architecture was all the rage, and this place was no exception, constructing a building that resembled the U.S. Capitol, colloquially known as the “Little White House.” Even now, it still looked quite grand, but parking spaces were severely lacking, and the surrounding area was full of narrow lanes. As a result, most lawyers coming here for business ended up parking at that vegetable market. Over time, with so many people doing the same, it became a well-known tip in the local lawyers’ guidebook.

As they crossed the street to retrieve their cars, Qi Song spotted Guan Lan ahead, also heading toward the vegetable market, her hands still full of items. Midway, her phone likely vibrated in her pocket. She paused, hesitated for a second, then realized she had no free hand to answer it, so she kept walking. Reaching a gray-green Škoda, she opened the door, tossed her laptop and handbag inside, and only then pulled out her phone to check.

Qi Song’s car was parked on the other side, separated by two rows. As he walked over, his gaze kept drifting unconsciously in that direction, though he couldn’t explain why.

Yang Jiayue, however, interpreted his silence differently and struck up a conversation, saying, “Attorney Qi got a new car, huh?”

Snapping out of his thoughts, Qi Song joked casually, “Thanks to you, my next one might have to be a Wuling Hongguang.”

Though spoken lightly, the words carried weight for Yang Jiayue, who immediately wilted and began self-criticizing: “I was too optimistic when communicating with the client about the case details, and I failed to thoroughly investigate the key evidence. You actually warned me about both these points—it was my oversight.”

Qi Song saw him like this and comforted him: “Don’t overthink it. You had bad cards this time, and you were up against a seasoned player. Losing to her isn’t anything to be ashamed of.”

Yang Jiayue felt somewhat ashamed upon hearing this, probably recalling his previous assessment of Guan Lan—just a woman, a lecturer at a political and law school, working part-time at a small law firm.

This was exactly the kind of situation Qi Song was least adept at handling. Seeing the other’s reaction, it seemed his attempt at comfort had missed the mark, so he added a few more words: “You came from non-litigation practice, right?”

“Yes,” Yang Jiayue replied. “I used to be in Lawyer Jiang’s team.”

“How many years have you been in the litigation group?” Qi Song asked again, already understanding why this case had ended up in Yang Jiayue’s hands.

“I transferred groups during my internship, so it’s been about three years now.”

Qi Song chose his words carefully, not wanting to be too explicit: “Don’t think only criminal defense lawyers face risks. Parties in civil and commercial cases rarely tell the whole truth. A single misstep could land a lawyer in trouble for false litigation—even if you don’t end up behind bars, you could lose your license. The case and the money are secondary—protecting yourself comes first.”

Yang Jiayue was surprised. Qi Song wasn’t known for being approachable—he had a reputation as one of the most difficult partners in the litigation group, if not the entire Zhixiang Law Firm.

“And one more thing,” Qi Song wasn’t finished yet, continuing, “Remember this for next time – not all judgments get published online. That part-time lawyer whose records you can barely find might actually be a seasoned veteran who’s been through countless battles.”

“I understand,” Yang Jiayue promptly responded with sincere earnestness, “I’ll definitely conduct a thorough review when I get back. Thank you, Attorney Qi.”

Qi Song nodded, feeling like this was one of those moments where he should pat his junior colleague on the shoulder. But ultimately unaccustomed to physical contact, he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

He had never been comfortable with these kinds of situations. Even when Wang Gan had treated him this way in the past – though he’d felt grateful, flattered, and had benefited greatly – it still made him awkward. The only reason he’d initiated this today was because during their mid-year review, Wang Gan had told him: “Qi Song, you should spend at least some effort mentoring the juniors, don’t always be so solitary.” Well now, at least he could bring up this example during their next review meeting – he’d done his mentoring.

After finishing their conversation, Yang Jiayue bid him farewell and got into his own car.

Qi Song also opened his car door and sat down. The scorching afternoon sun had heated the interior unbearably. He started the engine and turned the air conditioning to maximum. Through the window, he could see Guan Lan’s gray-green Skoda still parked in the same spot. The stark contrast between the bright exterior and dark interior, combined with the heat waves rising from the hood and the glare on the windshield, made it difficult to see clearly. He could only tell she remained motionless in the driver’s seat—whether she was waiting with closed eyes for the AC to cool the car or had simply fallen asleep, he couldn’t discern.

He let Yang Jiayue leave first, saying he needed to reply to an email. As he waited in place, he hesitated, wondering if he should go wake her. But before long, she stirred—apparently awakened by her phone again—paused briefly, then picked up to answer the call.

“Business must be booming,” Qi Song mused inwardly with a quiet smile before driving off.

Turning into the market entrance, he realized the road ahead was blocked—a delivery truck had broken down and was waiting for a tow, making it impossible to pass anytime soon. The attendant pointed him to another gate, so he made a U-turn and headed that way instead.

After circling around a mixed-use building, he could already see the exit when a Changhe minivan came barreling toward him. Its windows were wide open, revealing a shirtless driver glistening with sweat in the heat. The man’s sun-darkened arm and half his shoulder jutted out as he jabbed a finger at the nearby sign and shouted at Qi Song, “What the hell are you doing?! Are you blind?! This is the entrance—you’re going the wrong way, you know that?!”

Qi Song rolled down his window too, at a pace that seemed to invite trouble, but his tone remained calm and unhurried as he explained, “There’s a truck broken down ahead. The only way out now is through the entrance. You shouldn’t go that way either.”

The minivan driver had clearly been gearing up for a fight, only to find his punches landing on air. He blinked, muttered an “Oh,” then snapped, “So what am I supposed to do now?! The road’s right there, and traffic’s already backed up. How the hell am I supposed to reverse?!” His tone was still aggressive, as if this were entirely Qi Song’s fault.

If it were someone else, there would have been some bickering, but Qi Song maintained his usual demeanor. He rolled the window down further and leaned out to look around. The space was already narrow, now completely packed with cars, leaving only a single lane for passage. The only available spot was a small clearing about ten meters behind him at a turn. He pointed there and said to the man, “I’ll back up a bit, and you can turn around there.”

It was then that he noticed Guan Lan’s Škoda following closely behind him. Judging by the model, it was quite old, probably without even a rearview camera. Qi Song wasn’t sure if she could handle it. But before he could say anything else, the Škoda had already shifted into reverse, smoothly backing along the winding path and settling perfectly into the spot—as if the car and driver were one.

Watching through the rearview mirror, Qi Song found himself amused, realizing how unnecessary his doubts had been. Of course, she could do it—just like her performance in this case, she was a seasoned pro.

Finally, the traffic puzzle was solved. The man in the van seemed a bit apologetic, nodding at Qi Song and mumbling something indistinct before turning his car around and driving off.

Only Qi Song and Guan Lan remained, two people with two cars, leaving the parking lot—one heading north, the other south, gradually drifting apart.

That evening, Guan Lan discussed the case outcome with Xu Mo and then video-called Zhao Rui. Xu Mo had been introduced to her as a client by Zhao Rui, so this served as a form of closure.

After hearing the full story, Zhao Rui sighed and asked, “You managed to recover so much money for Xu Mo this time—how much did you charge in legal fees?”

Guan Lan replied, “It was still calculated based on the original claim amount.”

Zhao Rui felt indignant on her behalf, saying, “I’m not that close with Xu Mo. I only asked her to contact you because you were in urgent need of money. Don’t hold back on my account.”

Guan Lan laughed and replied, “The agreement was signed this way. If we’d lost the case and gotten nothing, would I have had to refund the legal fees?”

“But we won this time, didn’t we?”

“A settlement isn’t about winning or losing.”

“You’re such a saint,” Zhao Rui teased her as usual. “What’s so hard about talking money?”

“It’s already quite a lot,” Guan Lan reassured her. “Besides, there are some things I couldn’t say outright as a lawyer. Xu Mo was smart enough to read between the lines and find the evidence herself.”

“What things? How did she find it? Tell me,” Zhao Rui asked with great interest.

Guan Lan declined with a smile: “You’re happily married—you don’t need to know. And I can’t tell you anyway, because of professional ethics.”

Zhao Rui had no choice but to relent, sighing: “If only we’d known earlier, she should’ve come to you when she got divorced.”

Guan Lan smiled—she’d heard similar sentiments too often. Every lawsuit essentially stemmed from past mistakes, and by the time any dispute reaches litigation, there are no real winners left.

“Which lawyer did Zhicheng assign?” Zhao Rui inquired further.

“Yang Jiayue and Qi Song—know them?” Guan Lan retrieved business cards from her bag and gave the names. Zhao Rui had worked in Zhicheng’s HR department for several years before moving to another firm, so she knew most lawyers in the circle.

“I don’t know this Yang person, probably a newbie. But Qi Song,” Zhao Rui smiled, “…what do you think of him?”

Guan Lan said, “Quite clean-cut.”

“Hmm, indeed,” Zhao Rui clicked her tongue, reminiscing, “Back when I was at Zhicheng, he was the male model for the firm’s dress code promotional posters. Those always featured the most picture-perfect virgins from each year…”

Guan Lan laughed and clarified, “I meant their working style is quite clean.”

“What style?” Zhao Rui didn’t understand.

“Handling cases,” Guan Lan replied. “The matters themselves aren’t presentable, but they handle them very cleanly—just sticking to the rules, never resorting to sophistry even when facing unfavorable situations.”

“Oh…” Zhao Rui wasn’t particularly interested in this. “I meant, what do you think of him as a person?”

Guan Lan thought back, only remembering how he’d barely spoken a word in the mediation room, wearing a suit in forty-degree heat, with glasses, thin and long eyes, single eyelids. The lower half of his face remained unseen behind a mask.

She didn’t find anything particularly special about it, but judging by Zhao Rui’s tone, there seemed to be some underlying meaning, so she inquired in return: “Since you know him, what do you think of him as a person?”

“Qi Song, how should I put it…” Zhao Rui clearly had a story to tell.

“Go on?” Guan Lan prompted.

“He has a nickname at Zhicheng.”

“What’s it called?”

“Single Man.”

“Huh?” Guan Lan didn’t understand.

“It’s ‘Single, Man’,” Zhao Rui emphasized, gesturing with both hands as if introducing a Marvel movie title sequence.

Guan Lan laughed: “Is that a type of superhero? Did you learn that from your old Li?”

Zhao Rui had a room in her house with glass cabinets on all four walls, specifically for displaying her husband Li Yuanjie’s Gundam and Ultraman collections.

“Well…” Zhao Rui pondered, trying to find a more precise expression, “There’s a word in Shanghainese – ‘du’. Qi Song is a bit ‘du’.”

Guan Lan had indeed heard elders use this term before, usually to criticize their generation of only-children born in the 80s, meaning selfish, cold and unfeeling.

She glanced at the title on his business card and remarked, “How did someone like him make partner? To be a good litigator, don’t you need at least some level of social superpowers?”

“True,” Zhao Rui agreed. “Zhicheng said it’s a seven-year partner track, but those who actually make partner in seven years are freaks of nature. And considering his average academic background—just an undergrad from your CUPL, with no family connections…”

“What’s wrong with a CUPL undergrad?” Guan Lan picked up on the implied slight, smiling as she defended the university where she worked.

Zhao Rui quickly clarified, “I’m just stating facts. You handle graduate employment at your school, right? You know how crazy the academic arms race has gotten in law firms these days. Zhicheng was among the first domestic firms to adopt the corporate system, matching foreign firms’ salary scales. Ten years ago, their starting salary for fresh grads was already over twenty thousand. For a CUPL undergrad to get in was exceptional.”

“Is he from the prosecutor’s office or the court then?” Guan Lan considered another possibility.

“Neither,” Zhao Rui replied. “Just pure grind—handling cases, publishing papers, getting certifications, the ultimate overachiever. Plus, he aligned himself with the right mentor. Everyone knows he’s Wang Gan’s protégé. And he’s quite adept at networking too, knows how to keep clients wrapped around his finger.”

“But didn’t you say he’s ‘aloof’?” Guan Lan pointed out the logical inconsistency.

Zhao Rui explained, “They’re all smart people. It’s not that he lacks emotional intelligence—he just can’t be bothered wasting it on those he deems unworthy.”

“That sounds so realistic,” Guan Lan commented with a laugh.

“You can say that again…” Zhao Rui trailed off, leaving her words hanging.

“This person doesn’t just have ‘solitary’ as their only work trait, does it?” Guan Lan seemed to pick up on some underlying meaning.

But Zhao Rui didn’t elaborate, throwing Guan Lan’s earlier words back at her: “We HR professionals have our professional ethics too.”

“Alright~, won’t interfere with your professional ethics,” Guan Lan said with a laugh, then suddenly thought of something else and added, “But I did notice another characteristic about him.”

“What?” Zhao Rui asked.

“Emotionally stable,” Guan Lan replied.

“Emotionally stable?” Zhao Rui didn’t understand.

“The most admirable quality in modern people,” Guan Lan remarked.

She realized her fondest impression of Qi Song was that scene in the parking lot—on a scorching 40+ degree day, dressed in a shirt and suit, sitting inside a brand-new Panamera. He rolled down the window and spoke politely to the bare-chested driver of a Changhe minivan, his tone just as composed as when addressing a judge in court—even though that driver had just cursed at him.

Neither elated by material gains nor depressed by personal losses—Qi Song seemed like someone who would never have a moment of irritable loss of control.