82: Chapter 82 Release Date and Subpoena

On the release day of "Truth on the Dance Floor," the atmosphere at the Universal Music Nashville branch was strangely divided.

In the promotion department's office area, over twenty screens were scrolling with real-time data streams—Spotify pre-save playlists had reached 120,000 saves, Apple Music new song placement was confirmed, and the iTunes homepage banner ad was live. According to the plan, the single would be released globally at 10:00 AM.

But at the other end of the corridor, in the legal department, the air was frozen and heavy. Erin Waters and her team were urgently reviewing a legal document that had arrived in the early hours of the morning.

"Northrop has filed for a temporary restraining order against "Truth on the Dance Floor" through the U.S. District Court for the Eastern District of Tennessee," Erin said, pushing the document toward Karen Mitchell. "The reason cited is that the song's lyrics 'may contain trade secrets obtained through illegal means.'"

Karen scanned the document quickly. "What evidence do they have?"

"No direct evidence," Erin shook her head. "But they cited a line of lyrics—'The weight of the promise makes the steel groan.' They claim this line 'clearly alludes' to Northrop's internal confidential discussions regarding NT-7 material performance issues, and therefore presume the lyricist 'may have had access to undisclosed internal documents.'"

"This is a fishing expedition," Robert Chen frowned. "Using vague accusations to file for a restraining order, creating legal obstacles to sabotage the release day."

"But the court might approve it," Erin pointed to the document. "The judge is Edward Ross, a conservative. In the past three similar cases, he granted a preliminary injunction twice. The hearing is scheduled for..." She glanced at the time. "2:00 PM today. This means if approved, the song could be forced off the shelves six hours after its release."

Karen fell silent. The clock on the office wall pointed to 9:15 AM. There were forty-five minutes left until the global release.

"We need to notify Alex," she said.

"And then what?" Robert asked. "Delay the release? Wait for the hearing results?"

"Delaying the release would cause even greater losses," Karen calculated the commercial cost. "The omni-channel promotion has already launched, media announcements have been sent out, and Taylor's Twitter teaser has been posted. If we delay now, we will lose credibility, Alex will lose momentum, and Northrop—without spending a dime—will have achieved its goal."

She picked up the phone. "I'll call Marcus. You all continue preparing for the release. We will proceed as planned, and then focus all our efforts on preparing for this afternoon's hearing."

---

Alex was listening to the final master of "Truth on the Dance Floor." Leo sat behind the console, nervously adjusting the last few parameters.

"Boost the low end by another 0.5 dB," Alex said, wearing his monitor headphones. "The impact of the chorus could be stronger."

"But radio airplay will compress the low frequencies..." Leo hesitated.

"This song isn't optimized for radio," Alex said. "It's for live performances, for headphones, to make people feel that... explosive release after being suppressed."

Leo complied. When the modified version played, the vibration of the low frequencies indeed enhanced the power of the entire song—like a heartbeat amplified, like anger given form.

At 9:20 AM, Marcus rushed into the recording studio, his face pale.

"Northrop has filed for a restraining order."

Alex took off his headphones. "Give me the details."

Marcus recounted Erin's information. After listening, Alex's expression remained unchanged.

"For the 2:00 PM hearing, what are our odds of winning?"

"Erin says Judge Ross leans conservative. But the key is—Northrop has no solid evidence, only speculation," Marcus analyzed quickly. "If we can prove the lyrics are artistic expression, unrelated to specific trade secrets..."

"We can." Alex pulled up the creative documents. "The entire creation process of this song is documented: sources of inspiration, revised versions, reference materials. Leo can testify that I never gave him any of Northrop's internal documents."

Leo nodded. "I only received the melody, lyrics, and the emotional direction you wanted. All specific content is artistic creation."

"That's enough." Alex looked at the clock on the wall—9:25 AM. "The release proceeds as planned. Then, I need you to do one thing."

"What?"

"Compile the creation process into a complete evidence package," Alex said. "Include the initial handwritten lyric drafts, melody demos, email exchanges with Leo, and arrangement discussion records. At the hearing, we must prove this is a piece of pure artistic creation, not a leak of trade secrets."

Marcus took notes. "I'll have Attorney Lawson coordinate with Erin. But there's one more question—what if the restraining order is actually approved?"

Alex smiled. "That would be even better."

"What?"

"If the restraining order is approved, it will cause a tremor in the music industry," Alex explained. "A song taken down because its lyrics 'might allude' to a company's internal discussions? This touches the bottom line of creative freedom. When that happens, it won't just be us standing up in opposition."

He pulled up the system interface and redeemed a new ability.

"System, how much for [Legal Strategy Deduction (Basic)]?"

[Required Popularity: 220,000 points]

[Effect: Can predict the possible trajectory of legal actions and formulate targeted response strategies]

"Redeem."

[Redemption successful! 220,000 points consumed]

[Obtained Ability: [Legal Strategy Deduction (Basic)]]

A stream of information flooded in. Suddenly, Alex "saw" several possible outcomes for the afternoon hearing: the probability of Judge Ross approving the restraining order was 58%, and the probability of dismissal was 42%. But if they submitted the complete evidence of the creation process, the probability of dismissal would rise to 67%.

More importantly, he "saw" Northrop's true goal—not really wanting to take the song down, but to create a precedent: using legal means to suppress artistic creation. Once successful, they could use the same method to deal with documentaries, column articles, and all future works.

"We need allies," Alex said. "Marcus, contact PEN America, the First Amendment Lawyers Association, and the Music Creators Alliance. Elevate this issue to an industry-wide concern."

"Time is too tight..."

"Use the "Voice of Truth" platform." Alex already had a plan. "After the song releases at ten, I will post a long article there: "When Lyrics Become Evidence: The Boundaries of Artistic Freedom." At the same time, launch a creator petition calling for the protection of freedom of artistic expression."

Leo listened from the side, his expression complex. "Did you foresee this happening?"

"I foresaw that they would use legal means," Alex said calmly. "But I didn't expect such a stupid tactic. They have exposed their own fear—fear of art, fear of creation, fear of truth being set to a melody."

The clock on the wall ticked to 9:55 AM.

"Prepare for release." Alex put on his headphones, listening to the entire song one last time.

The whistle intro began, the retro synths joined in, the drums kicked in... and then his voice:

"You say you have perfect dance moves... Under the spotlight, you never make a mistake..."

In the chorus, the low-frequency vibrations made the entire room resonate:

"But you can't see my dance moves! Can't see how I dodge your lies! I have my own rhythm! On the stage of truth, I won't stop!"

9:59 AM. The release buttons on seventeen global music platforms were ready.

10:00 AM sharp.

Released.

---

The data began to flow.

Spotify: 2,417 streams in the first minute.

Apple Music: Instant ranking at #87 on the new song chart.

iTunes: Downloads increasing by 120 per minute.

YouTube: Official audio video released for three minutes, views exceeded 50,000.

But beyond these data points, another battlefield had simultaneously opened.

The "Voice of Truth" platform launched on time. The main image on the homepage was the cover of "Truth on the Dance Floor," but next to it was an eye-catching headline: "Battle for Creative Freedom."

Alex's long-form article had already been published. The article documented the creative process of the song in detail, attaching manuscript photos, demo audio, and even a clip of him livestreaming the creation of "Neon Lies" in the early hours of the morning. Then, the tone shifted:

"Today, someone is trying to use a legal injunction to silence this song. Not because it's illegal, not because it's defamatory, but because the lyrics 'might imply' certain things they don't want discussed. If this succeeds, tomorrow it could be the turn of any song, any movie, or any book."

The end of the article contained a petition link: "I support the freedom of artistic creation."

At 10:15, the number of signatures exceeded one thousand.

At 10:30, five thousand.

At 11:00, twelve thousand.

The music industry began to react. The first to publicly voice support was Taylor—she retweeted the article and wrote: "If lyrics need to undergo lawyer review before release, music is dead."

Next came several independent musicians, then a Grammy-winning producer, and finally, even the official Twitter account of Universal Music retweeted it—the wording was cautious, but the stance was clear: "We support the freedom of expression for creators."

Northrop's legal attack was triggering a backlash.

---

Outside the federal court, Attorney Lawson and Irene Waters were making final preparations on the courthouse steps. They were carrying two heavy document boxes—physical copies of the evidence regarding the creative process.

"There are a lot of media here," Irene whispered. "CNN, Fox, even The New York Times have sent reporters. This isn't just an ordinary injunction hearing anymore."

"Just as I intended," Lawyer Lawson straightened his tie. "Northrop wants to suppress this, so we are going to put it on the table. Artistic freedom against corporate suppression—this is the perfect narrative."

They walked into the courthouse. The hearing was in Courtroom 303, and the gallery, which could hold fifty people, was already full. Alex and Marcus sat in the first row, next to Leo and several music industry representatives.

Northrop's legal team sat opposite them, five people, all in dark suits, with serious expressions.

At exactly 2:00 PM, Judge Ross entered the courtroom. He was in his sixties, with graying hair and a stern expression.

"Are both sides ready?"

"Ready, Your Honor," both lawyers replied simultaneously.

The hearing began. Northrop's lawyer stated their case first, spending twenty minutes detailing how the lyrics "clearly corresponded" to internal discussions at Northrop, and how they were "highly likely" based on illegally obtained information.

When it was Lawyer Lawson's turn, he didn't directly refute the claims, but did something else instead.

"Your Honor, we request to submit Exhibits A through F—the complete record of the creative process for the song 'Truth on the Dance Floor.'"

The bailiff brought up the document boxes. Lawyer Lawson began to display them one by one: handwritten lyric drafts with revisions; a melody demo recorded on a phone, with a timestamp showing it was from two months ago; and email exchanges with Leo discussing musical style rather than specific facts...

Finally, he played the livestream clip of Alex creating the song in the early hours.

"Your Honor, this creator does not need to steal trade secrets to write songs. He has talent, inspiration, and ability. And more importantly—" Lawyer Lawson looked at Northrop's legal team, "The essence of artistic creation is metaphor, symbolism, and expressing shared human emotional experiences. When someone writes 'the weight of promises makes steel groan,' they could be writing about anything—a failed relationship, a broken dream, or, yes, a truth covered up by a company. But this does not constitute a crime, nor does it constitute infringement. This constitutes art."

The courtroom went quiet. Judge Ross flipped through the evidence, his expression unreadable.

Three minutes later, he looked up.

"The standard for granting a temporary injunction lies in whether the applicant can prove that 'irreparable harm may be caused if it is not granted,'" his voice was steady. "In this case, the harm claimed by the applicant is that 'trade secrets may be further leaked.' But based on the existing evidence, this court believes the connection between the lyrics and specific trade secrets is too speculative to meet the approval standard."

He struck the gavel.

"Application denied. The song may continue to be released."

Suppressed applause erupted in the gallery. Northrop's legal team looked livid.

But as they left the courtroom, Lawyer Lawson noticed the opposing lead counsel taking a phone call, their expression shifting from anger to... a kind of calm that comes when a plan succeeds.

Something was wrong.

---

Alex had caught the anomaly in the courtroom—when the injunction was denied, the Northrop lawyers' emotion wasn't frustration, but... waiting.

Waiting for what?

The answer was revealed at 4:30. Marcus rushed into the safe house, holding new legal documents in his hand.

"They've changed the battlefield," his voice trembled. "Northrop has filed a shareholder derivative lawsuit through the Delaware Court of Chancery—where their company is registered. It accuses company executives of 'wasting company assets,' specifically referring to 'failing to take effective measures to stop defamatory promotional campaigns against the company, leading to damage to the company's reputation and a decline in stock price.'"

Alex took the documents. This time, the target wasn't him, but the directors inside Northrop who supported the "moderate path"—especially Director Agent Miller.

"They are cleaning house internally," Alex realized. "Using shareholder lawsuits to threaten the board of directors, forcing them to adopt more aggressive confrontation strategies."

"What's worse is this," Marcus flipped to another page. "The lawsuit explicitly mentions 'certain musical works' and implies that if the company does not take 'all available legal means' against these works, the directors could face personal liability for damages."

Attorney Lawson joined via video, his expression grim: "This is a clever strategy. They aren't suing you directly; they are suing their own company's directors. But the actual effect is—forcing Northrop to take harsher actions against you, or else the directors will have to pay."

The pressure had shifted. From external confrontation, it had turned into internal pressure.

Alex remained silent. The [Legal Strategy Deduction] ability on the system interface was analyzing this new situation: the moderates within Northrop now faced a dilemma—either confront Alex or be sued by shareholders. In the face of personal interest, moral stances often yield.

"We still have time," Alex finally said. "The trial for the shareholder lawsuit will take months. Before that..."

He looked at the data screen. The ranking of "Truth on the Dance Floor" was climbing rapidly: fifteenth on the Billboard Real-Time Digital Song Sales chart, and ninth on the Spotify US Daily Chart.

"Before that, we need to make this song so successful that... any attempt to suppress it will look foolish."

The system interface flickered:

[Song release popularity gained: +312,000 points (real-time)]

[Current popularity: 7,404,000 points]

[Public attention triggered by legal battle: additional +88,000 points]

[Total popularity: 7,492,000 points]

But this war was no longer just about the accumulation of popularity.

This was a war about whether voices could be heard.

And Alex had just won a small battle.

But the great war was still continuing.

He opened his creative software and began to conceive the next song.

Because creation was his only, and also his best, weapon.

And this war needed to be won with countless songs.