Chapter 1 - Parallel Lines

Translator's Note:

Hello, I hope you've all been doing well. I have decided to pick up a modern times novel for a change. A story about mafia, guns and thugs, where the MC is going to get swept away. Still, don't worry too much for him, he's not your usual brainless and harmless shou.

This is a novel by the same author as "You’ve Got Mail: A Cautionary Tale", so you can take a guess at what's coming. :p

Here you go, and I wish you a good read.

And, as I said before, if you wish to read ahead, you can head over to my Patreon to get early access to all the translated chapters.

His name had reverberated through the legal world over the past two or three years.

 

Shuai Zhaomin, a young attorney from Taiwan, had just turned 35 this year. Polite and composed, he exuded the warmth and reserve characteristic of Easterners, his smile as refreshing as a spring breeze. He had an uncanny knack for navigating social nuances.

 

When he first entered the U.S. legal system, no one held much hope for him. The courtroom, akin to a blood-soaked battlefield, left no room for timidity or conscience if one aimed to defeat an opponent.

 

A bespectacled, mild-mannered Asian man seemed far too gentle for such an arena. Even potential clients hesitated to place their trust in him.

 

There was an air of quiet nobility about him—his neatly combed black hair, immaculately clean and unblemished nails, and his meticulous, almost graceful movements. He seemed better suited to the runway than the courtroom.

 

A lawyer? In the brutal, cutthroat world of American justice? Absolutely not.

 

At his welcome party, when colleagues asked why he had come to the United States, he had adjusted his glasses and offered a reserved smile. "I was worried about my sister, so I came to accompany her."

 

A lack of ambition was immediately equated with incompetence. For his first five years, Shuai Zhaomin was relegated to cases assigned to public defenders—mostly hardened criminals on the brink of conviction or drug addicts too far gone to make sense of their surroundings. Whether he succeeded or failed hardly seemed to matter.

 

Then, as if the goddess of fortune decided to roll the dice, an unexpected twist changed his destiny.

 

Due to a series of coincidences, a particularly thorny case landed on Shuai Zhaomin's desk when no one else was available to take it.

 

The case involved a widow accused of murdering her lover. Evidence seemed damning: her fingerprints were found at the scene, and the weapon bore her prints as well. Her alibi was weak at best.

 

The widow claimed she had returned home to find an unusual metallic scent in the air. Tracing the smell, she discovered her lover's naked, bloodied corpse on her bed.

 

As for the weapon, she explained that she had simply picked up a knife lying near her door. And wasn't it her house? Wouldn't her fingerprints be everywhere?

 

This was the case where Shuai Zhaomin revealed his true prowess.

 

What everyone assumed would drag on for years, he resolved within six months. Through meticulous preparation and deft strategy, he won the case for his client. Without resorting to venomous or cutting language, he systematically dismantled his opponents, leaving them no room to recover.

 

From that point on, Shuai Zhaomin's unbroken streak of victories began—a luminous legend in the making.

 

But success often brings its shadows. Achieving fame as a renowned attorney in the U.S. also meant inviting all manner of unsavory troubles.

 

Take his current situation: seated across from his boss, sprawled in a chair, belly protruding, and fingers greasy from clutching a Cuban cigar. The sweat dripping off him seemed less like water and more like the oily residue of greed. Shuai Zhaomin resisted the urge to grab the desk phone and smash it into the man's head.

 

People had peculiar stereotypes about Asians. Either they were cunning and mysterious, or docile and accommodating. Shuai Zhaomin knew he had been pigeonholed as the latter—a pushover.

 

He didn't bother to correct this impression; being underestimated often gave him an edge in dismantling his enemies. Yet being treated as an easy target inevitably led to moments like this, where his irritation bubbled dangerously close to the surface.

 

"Shuai, I know this isn't fair to you," his boss said, patting his rotund belly, his tone oily as his appearance. Shuai Zhaomin's lips curved in a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

 

If you know it's unfair, why the hell are you making me do it?

 

"Boss, I think Adams might be more suitable for this case. After all, he has a… close relationship with the Brelini family and is likely to achieve the desired results."

 

The boss laughed, a boisterous, typically American guffaw, belly shaking as his mouth opened wide, eyes narrowing to slits that somehow still emitted the predatory glint of a carnivore.

 

Shuai Zhaomin's fingers twitched. He had to restrain himself from grabbing the monitor and smashing it down.

 

"Shuai, you must understand, Adams is tied up with another case. Besides, Mr. Brelini personally requested you for this. Isn't that an honor?" Smoke billowed from between the man's fleshy lips as he spoke, and Shuai Zhaomin fought to keep his expression neutral, shrugging lightly.

 

"How flattering," he said, though his inner voice snarled: If you blow one more puff of smoke at my face, I'll beat you so badly your own mother won't recognize you.

 

"You've never lost a case, Shuai. That's what sets you apart from Adams. At times like this, we must minimize risk and secure maximum benefits for our clients."

 

The man's lips flapped, producing insufferable chuckles and smoke rings, a combination that grated on every nerve Shuai Zhaomin possessed.

 

"Yes, I understand," he said, adjusting his glasses that hadn't budged an inch. His smile was polite, though the veins on his clenched hands betrayed his simmering frustration.

 

What utter bullshit. Minimize risk? Whose risk, exactly? Isn't it just that if something goes wrong, the foreigner—me—is the easiest scapegoat for the firm? Screw that.

 

Shuai Zhaomin knew he couldn't stay much longer in that office—any moment now, he'd lose control and plant a fist squarely on that greasy, bloated face. Though he harbored no deep attachment to the U.S.—especially now that his sister had returned to Taiwan—somehow, the timing never felt quite right to leave. Yet the temptation to pack his bags and start fresh grew stronger with every passing day.

 

Besides, getting arrested for assault would leave a permanent stain on his record, one that would strip him of his career—one of the few things in life he genuinely loved. The courtroom battles, the intellectual sparring, and even the catharsis of dismantling his opponents held a certain allure.

 

"Mr. Brelini will be delighted to hear the good news." The boss let out another boisterous laugh, his sausage-like fingers shuffling through the papers on his desk. He finally extracted a folder and handed it over. "Here's Mr. Brelini's personal file. The case documents should already be waiting in your office. Shuai Zhaomin, we're counting on you to pull off another miracle!"

 

Shuai Zhaomin's fingers twitched as he suppressed the urge to flip him off and unleash a tirade of profanities using his national curses, calling him a "fat pig".

 

The real miracle here is that I haven't smashed your face in yet!

 

It wasn't that Shuai Zhaomin harbored prejudice against overweight people. But when those layers of fat oozed with sleazy schemes and reeked of greed, it hit all his limits.

 

"Oh, by the way, Shuai Zhaomin, do you know what 'Tengshe'* means?" The unexpected utterance of that Chinese term from those squirming lips made Shuai Zhaomin raise an eyebrow. Maintaining his polished demeanor, he nodded with a faint smile.

 

"Yes, it's a mythical beast from the old Chinese legends." And you should stop butchering the Chinese language, or so help me, I'll tear your mouth off next time!

 

"A mythical beast? Hahaha! China sure loves its demon worship. Shuai Zhaomin, don't tell me your family believes in this nonsense too?" What the hell are you laughing at?

 

"No, my family is atheist." Shuai Zhaomin calmly recited the digits of pi in his mind, a trick he'd mastered thanks to this job. He could now rattle off 50 decimal places without hesitation—a necessity to avoid either an aneurysm or a jail sentence.

 

"You and Mr. Brelini should get along splendidly," the boss said, his thick lips curling into a fox-like smile as his jowls jiggled. The image he displayed might have been mistaken for Santa Claus, if not for the predatory glint in his eyes.

 

"Oh?" Shuai Zhaomin glanced at the folder. The name on the top made him freeze, his smile nearly faltering.

 

Tengshe Brelini? Tengshe?

 

He rubbed his temples, closed his eyes for a few seconds, then looked again. Tengshe*? Brelini?

 

[T/N: 騰蛇 (Téngshé) literally translates to "Soaring Snake". ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)]

 

With a serene smile, Shuai Zhaomin nodded. "I'm sure we'll get along just fine. After all, he is my client." If I can just manage to endure this absurdity.

 

Could he just toss the folder and walk away? Why the hell was an Italian named "Tengshe"? Teng-freaking-she! Are you kidding me?

 

The absurdity reminded him of people proudly wearing T-shirts emblazoned with vulgar phrases in a language they didn't understand. It was almost poetic.

 

"Your adaptability is your greatest strength!" the boss said.

 

"No, that's thanks to my parents' upbringing." Otherwise, you wouldn't still be sitting here sipping your ancient wine and puffing on your cigar.

 

"I'll leave this in your capable hands! Schedule a meeting with Mr. Brelini as soon as possible. I'll have Adams pass along the previous case notes." The boss's meaty hand waved dismissively. Shuai Zhaomin offered a polite nod and exhaled internally.

 

Finally… Finally!

 

When that corpulent, copper-scented excuse for Santa Claus disappeared behind the door, Shuai Zhaomin let out a heavy sigh and adjusted his glasses.

 

Returning to his office, he tossed the folder onto his desk and turned to his secretary with a weary shrug. "Miranda, darling, would you mind if I snuck off to the corner café for a couple of hours?"

 

"What did the boss say to you this time?" she asked, smothering a giggle as she gestured toward the towering stack of case files by the desk. "I just received a whole box of documents for you!"

 

Shuai Zhaomin's lips twisted into a resigned smile. Every curse I know could be condensed into a single, resounding 'Fuck.'*

 

[T/N: 幹 is considered to be the national swear word in Taiwan, Malaysia, and Singapore. Used in a manner similar to the English word "fuck", gan can express dismay, disgrace, and disapproval. It is extremely offensive when used to insult someone.]

 

"Work for the Brelini family…" His gaze narrowed at the imposing box by his desk. Even imagining its contents drained all his enthusiasm.

 

"Oh? That's a major case."

 

"Sure is!" he replied with mock cheer. But nothing beats the absurdity of an Italian named Tengshe.

 

Right now, Shuai Zhaomin desperately needed to vent. Desperately.

TOC | Next Chapter

 

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