The scene opens not with fanfare, but with tension—thick, palpable, and dressed in tailored wool. At the heart of it all stands Lin Zeyu, his silver-gray three-piece suit immaculate, his blue polka-dot tie a quiet rebellion against the monochrome seriousness of the room. His glasses, thin-rimmed and precise, catch the ambient light like surveillance lenses—always watching, always calculating. This is not a man who stumbles into drama; he *anticipates* it. And in the world of After Divorce I Can Predict the Future, anticipation is power. Behind him, the crowd murmurs—not gossip, exactly, but the low hum of people recalibrating their social maps in real time. Every glance toward Lin Zeyu carries weight: some curious, some wary, others outright hostile. He doesn’t flinch. Not when the older man in the herringbone blazer—Chen Rui, the so-called ‘industry patriarch’—steps forward with that practiced half-smile, the kind that promises mentorship but delivers ultimatums. Chen Rui’s posture is relaxed, but his eyes are sharp, scanning Lin Zeyu like a ledger being audited. He speaks softly, yet every syllable lands like a gavel. Lin Zeyu listens, lips parted just enough to betray surprise—then closes them, jaw tightening. That micro-expression? It’s the first crack in the armor. In After Divorce I Can Predict the Future, emotional control isn’t stoicism; it’s strategy. And Lin Zeyu is running out of moves.

Then there’s Wu Jian, the man in the charcoal pinstripe shirt, sleeves rolled just so, watch gleaming on his wrist like a silent timer. He stands slightly apart, arms crossed, observing not just Lin Zeyu, but the entire ecosystem around him. Wu Jian doesn’t speak much in this sequence—but when he does, it’s never filler. His silence is louder than anyone’s speech. He watches Chen Rui’s gestures, the way the older man leans in, how his fingers twitch near his lapel pin—a dragon motif, ornate, aggressive. Wu Jian’s gaze flicks to the woman in the black sequined gown, Xiao Man, who stands beside Chen Rui like a trophy turned sentinel. Her hair is coiled high, her expression unreadable, but her fingers tighten imperceptibly around her wineglass. She knows something. Everyone here knows *something*. But only Lin Zeyu seems to be playing chess while the rest are still learning the rules. When Chen Rui finally points—not at Lin Zeyu, but *past* him, toward the stage backdrop where ‘CHAMPION NIGHT’ glows in electric blue—it’s not an accusation. It’s a redirection. A test. Lin Zeyu turns, and for the first time, his breath catches. Not fear. Recognition. Because in After Divorce I Can Predict the Future, the past doesn’t stay buried—it reappears in sequins and spotlights, wearing someone else’s smile.

The lighting shifts subtly throughout: cool white LED strips overhead cast clinical shadows, while the blue backdrop pulses with a faint, almost hypnotic rhythm. It’s a corporate gala, yes—but the energy feels more like a tribunal. People hold wineglasses like shields. A woman in ivory silk—Yao Qing—steps forward, her pearl necklace catching the light like scattered stars. She says nothing, but her eyes lock onto Lin Zeyu’s, and for a beat, the room tilts. Is she ally or ambush? In this world, loyalty is currency, and everyone’s balance sheet is overdue. Lin Zeyu adjusts his glasses—not out of habit, but as a reset button. He exhales, slow, deliberate. Then he speaks. Not loudly. Not defiantly. Just clearly. And that’s when the real shift happens. Chen Rui’s smile doesn’t vanish—it *hardens*. Wu Jian uncrosses his arms. Xiao Man takes a half-step back. Because Lin Zeyu didn’t argue. He *predicted*. He named the next move before it was made. That’s the core of After Divorce I Can Predict the Future: foresight isn’t magic. It’s memory weaponized. Every slight, every betrayal, every whispered rumor from the divorce proceedings—they’re all data points feeding his internal algorithm. And tonight, at Champion Night, the system goes live. The camera lingers on Yao Qing’s face as sparks—literal pyrotechnic embers—drift down around her. Not celebration. Warning. The future isn’t coming. It’s already here, standing in a gray suit, waiting for someone to blink first.