In the midsummer of Spring City Law School, the chirping of cicadas and legal provisions compete in the heat. The world of top student Cui Xinqi is a review plan accurate to milliseconds, until he was drunk on a rainy night and was picked up by bartender Zhao Jiayu, a saxophone player whose youth was cut off by a campus loan. When the forged medical files opened up the dusty feud between father and son, and when the sound waves from the grassland shattered the glass curtain wall of the courtroom, the two men, whose fate marked the 98-day countdown to the judicial examination, used the law as their bow and the medical records as their musical scores to play together in the gap between lies and truth.
On the back of the mediation letter that summer, the Mongolian love poems and Article 1017 of the Civil Code were dyed mottled blue in the heavy rain. Ten years later, the time capsule buried in the boundary monument is sprouting: those confession frequencies filtered by tinnitus will eventually wait for the belated response of justice on the starry night.
