“It’s you,” the student said.

Adrian looked at him, bewildered. “What do you mean, me?”

“That…” The student hesitated, clearly embarrassed, unable to repeat what Adrian had just said. Skipping the qualifiers, he explained, “The one who’s the most compatible marriage partner for Senator Zhong Yan… is you.”

Adrian: “…”

Fein’s eyes widened; disregarding all respect for the institution, he whipped open his terminal’s virtual screen to check the freshly updated compatibility recommendation list.

Half the people in the hall were doing the same thing.

Fein carefully confirmed Adrian Atte’s name and Federal ID, and muttered, “Unbelievable. Do you two have some curse on graduation ceremonies? First, one was ruined, and now another. The principal might ban you from ever coming back to school.”

Ignoring him, Adrian looked toward the Social Academy, just in time to see Zhong Yan also looking his way.

Across the bustling hall, they met each other’s gaze with unreadable expressions for a couple of seconds, each unable to fathom the other’s thoughts. Then Zhong Yan mouthed two silent words.

If there were a lip-reading expert present, they would’ve deciphered the word as “upstairs.” In fact, it took only a few minutes for the live stream audience to figure this out, leaving everyone puzzled. “Upstairs? What’s upstairs?”

Years later, an explanation gained widespread acceptance in the virtual community. People believed Zhong Yan knew Adrian had studied lip-reading and used it to send a silent challenge, implying he intended to be the “one on top.” But that’s a story for another day.

The school staff began restoring order, gradually calming the commotion.

Adrian had no recollection of how the graduation ceremony ended. In fact, most of the audience was absent-minded, still processing the shocking revelation, eager for the ceremony to end so that the two individuals involved could get on with handling the matter.

And Adrian didn’t disappoint. As soon as the principal announced the end of the ceremony, he hadn’t even left the hall before he logged into the compatibility system on his terminal and chose to decline.

“Back to Navi,” Adrian said, his expression neutral.

Though he wasn’t outwardly angry, everyone on the military ship could sense his foul mood and wisely scattered, minding their own business.

The Liaison Officer approached him with a look of determination. He hadn’t graduated from the Highest Academy, so he’d stayed on the ship and missed the entire school event.

“Commander… We can’t leave just yet.”

“Why?”

Despite Adrian’s calm tone, the Liaison Officer shuddered, feeling unlucky to have stumbled into this situation. Carefully, he explained, “I haven’t gotten the list yet… The specimen shop contacted me; there’s been a small problem, so we’ll need to delay a few hours.”

“When can we get it?”

“At the earliest, after midnight—local time.”

Adrian checked the time; that meant at least a three-hour wait.

“Specimen” was an anti-AI underground intelligence organization that had risen to prominence in recent years, infiltrating various key institutions. They’d interacted with the Navi Military District on multiple occasions, each with generally positive impressions.

This time, Adrian had come to the Highest Academy’s branch to retrieve a list—the names of the faculty members who shared the same faction. “Specimen” was notoriously cautious with their information and always insisted on in-person exchanges. Adrian had considered letting the Liaison Officer stay while he left, but the Liaison Officer, not being a Highest Academy graduate, had only entered as a companion; staying alone would draw too much attention.

“Order the team to delay departure,” Adrian said irritably. “I’m going for a walk; don’t follow me.”

It was nearing midnight.

Zhong Yan looked stiffly up at the stars, still wearing a suit that did little to shield him from the cold. He’d been standing on the rooftop of the Art Academy’s west wing tower for three hours.

This spot was one of the school’s few surveillance blind spots at night and the designated “upstairs” in the secret codebook he and Adrian shared.

Yes, he and Adrian had a secret codebook.

In their second year, the Military Academy often held month-long closed training sessions, barring access to visitors. During those times, they’d sneak out to meet in blind spots late at night. With cameras and people always around, they created a codebook to avoid stating locations aloud.

“When I say I’ll wait ‘upstairs,’ meet me at midnight on the Art Academy’s west tower rooftop.”

“Two and a half hours after we start, meet ‘downstairs’”—at 2:30 a.m. in the Mechanical Academy’s underground storage room 208.

“One hour before we start, I’ll be ‘outside’; remember to bring a control sample for the lab.”—At 11 p.m., sneak out the school gate and turn right to the vintage pavilion, and don’t forget my favorite juice.

…

…

…

He remembered every code clearly. But maybe… Adrian didn’t remember. Or more likely, Adrian had a decent memory and knew exactly what “upstairs” meant—he simply no longer wished to meet.

Even perfect memory was useless; some codes had expired forever, like “the lab”—that juice shop was long gone.

Hugging himself to preserve some warmth, Zhong Yan laughed inwardly. Today, Adrian had seen him twice, clearly expressing his attitude—Adrian despised him, loathed him enough to avoid hearing his name spoken and to use their private codes as weapons to wound him in public.

Midnight struck.

He shouldn’t have hoped. Zhong Yan covered half his face with one hand, his expression contorted with pain for a few seconds. Then, in the next instant, his flawless face regained its usual composure.

Letting his hand fall, he straightened his collar, which hadn’t been messy to begin with, and turned to leave the rooftop.

In the stairwell, a man was walking up, and they crossed paths.

Adrian had changed back into casual clothes, clearly returning from the Navi battleship. With one hand in his pocket, he looked up at Zhong Yan, standing a few steps above him. His silver eyes were unreadable but held no trace of a smile.

A strained silence filled the narrow, dimly lit stairwell.

After a long pause, Adrian spoke, “I declined.”

“Oh.”

“I came to inform you about the fine.”

The compatibility system was a special process involving mutual consent. If both parties agreed, “Butterfly” would immediately declare them legally bound. But if only one declined, that individual would pay five times the fine. If both declined, they’d split the fee. Additionally, if the most compatible couple later chose to divorce, they’d also incur a penalty to deter the impact on society.

The fine amount varied by individual, as “Butterfly” assessed refusals based on the person’s status, the situation, and the societal impact. The greater the adverse effect, the higher the fine.

“I just got the assessment results. The fine is over eighty thousand.”

Zhong Yan seemed surprised but responded, “Oh. Pretty high.”

It was remarkably high. Divorce fines for average citizens on lower-tier planets rarely exceeded ten thousand, and anything over fifty thousand was almost unheard of.

Adrian said, “I checked the rules; it has to come from a single account. Transfer forty thousand to me; I’ll cover the difference. My account hasn’t changed.”

Zhong Yan stared at him, as though he hadn’t understood a word.

“What’s wrong?” Adrian, seeing his silence, sneered. “Have you deleted my account from your contact list already, Mr. Senator?”

“Adri—” Zhong Yan started, but remembering Adrian’s earlier warning, he stopped. “I think you’re misunderstanding something.”

“A misunderstanding?”

“Only if both parties reject marriage does the fine split. Otherwise, the one who declines pays the full five times.”

“Thank you for the legal lesson. I know the law.”

“So why are you assuming we fall under the first case, not the second?”

“Because you obviously wouldn’t agree!”

Zhong Yan looked incredulous. “Of course I wouldn’t refuse.”

Adrian stared at him, equally shocked. “Are you insane?!”

“No, you are.” Zhong Yan replied calmly. “I’m a Supreme Council representative and a direct subordinate of ‘Butterfly.’ Refusing my superior’s decision benefits me in no way. I’m supposed to support ‘Butterfly’s judgment. If I decline, how would the Federation view me?”

Adrian chuckled bitterly. “Oh, my apologies. I forgot. Of course, you wouldn’t decline any of ‘Butterfly’s suggestions. So… let’s see… Five times eighty thousand is four hundred thousand, minus forty thousand makes three hundred sixty thousand. Ha, that’s pretty cost-effective for protecting your reputation.”

Zhong Yan shook his head, a stray lock falling softly over his brow, softening his expression.

Ah, Adrian thought, oddly distracted by that strand of hair. He’d almost forgotten Zhong Yan’s hair was always so soft.

But the sentimental thought shattered in an instant.

“I don’t know what calculations you’re doing, so let me make it clear: I won’t reject this marriage suggestion, nor will I pay. After all, you’re the one refusing, aren’t you?”

“So you’re saying you want me to pay four hundred thousand to keep your reputation? Is that it?”

Adrian laughed coldly. “Dream on. Do you think it’s still seven years ago?”

Perhaps from the heated argument, Zhong Yan’s breath had quickened. After a long day and three hours in the cold, he finally felt exhausted and gripped the stair railing to hide his weakness. “Suit yourself. I’m heading back.”

He moved to pass Adrian, but in an instant, he was spun around—a furious Adrian grabbing his wrist and pinning him against the wall.