The next morning, we arrived at the Civil Affairs Bureau.
The Civil Affairs Bureau smelled faintly of disinfectant, ink, and despair.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering just enough to remind you that romance was dead and bureaucracy had taken its place. Couples lined the benches along the wall: some giggling nervously, some yawning, one pair already bickering over a pen.
So this is where lives are chained forever. Not a string quartet or roses in sight. Just peeling linoleum and the faint sound of a printer jamming somewhere in the back. Romantic.
And of course, Hanchuan looked like he was in a magazine spread.
His charcoal suit didn't wrinkle, not even under these interrogation-lamp lights. His hair stayed perfectly in place. His jawline could've cut through the Civil Affairs forms. Meanwhile, I was ninety percent sure the buzzing fluorescent overhead had highlighted every stray strand of my bangs like a crime scene spotlight.
I clutched my bag tighter and muttered under my breath. "Unfair."
"What is?" His voice was low, steady.
"Nothing." Everything. How dare you still look like an ad campaign when I look like I crawled out of a tax audit?
His lips twitched — almost imperceptible.
The clerk at the counter barely glanced up. "Names, identification, household registration booklets."
I slid mine across the desk, trying to look composed. Hanchuan set his down with the ease of someone signing away nations.
Forms were shoved toward us. Boxes upon boxes. Name, birthday, ID number, address.
I blinked. "I feel like I'm applying for a mortgage."
"Marriage is more binding than a mortgage," the clerk droned without looking up.
Great. Someone fire Cupid and hire the IRS instead.
The corner of Hanchuan's mouth tugged, quickly smoothed away.
I filled in the lines with the solemnity of a prisoner. "Occupation: prospective student and wife. Residence: technically nowhere, thank you Shen family."
I added a flourish to my signature just to spite the universe. At least if my life was crashing, my handwriting looked pretty.
Hanchuan, on the other hand, wrote with sharp, decisive strokes. Even his penmanship screams CEO. My own penmanship is quite exquisite if I could say so myself, but if this were a signature contest, I'd already be bankrupt.
Another twitch of his lips.
The clerk checked our forms, stamped them, then gestured to the side. "Photo."
Ah. The dreaded marriage certificate photo.
We were ushered onto stools against a red backdrop. The photographer, a middle-aged man with a permanent frown, adjusted the camera with all the enthusiasm of someone filing nails.
"Sit closer," he ordered.
I froze. Closer?
Hanchuan didn't hesitate. His arm brushed mine as he settled into place, solid and unyielding. Heat crawled up my neck.
Don't freak out. Don't freak out. It's just proximity. Just the unfair warmth radiating off the likely wonderful pair of abs hidden under three layers of fabric. Just the faint scent of cedarwood cologne clinging to him like he walked out of a luxury brand commercial.
His gaze flicked down at me, unreadable — except for the faintest twitch of amusement tugging at his mouth.
Meanwhile, my reflection in the camera lens looked like a raccoon who'd been forced into high society.
"Wait, my bangs—" I tried smoothing them. "Do we get a test shot? Filters? Maybe Photoshop?"
The photographer sighed. "Look at the camera."
I forced a smile. Hanchuan didn't. Of course he didn't. The man could probably glare into a lens and still look like a calendar model.
God, is that even legal? Some of us are out here fighting for our lives under Bureau lighting, and he's smirking his way onto national ID records.
Click.
It was over in seconds.
The photographer barely glanced at the screen. "Good enough."
Good enough? I lunged. "Show me."
And there it was. My immortal shame: stiff shoulders, uneven bangs, one eye slightly squinted. Beside me, Hanchuan sat like a statue of cold perfection. His perfect jawline mocked me.
"I look like I'm being arrested," I hissed.
"It still looks like you," he said smoothly.
I nearly threw the backdrop stand at his head.
The clerk shuffled the photo into the paperwork and returned to stamping things. Each thunk of the red seal echoed like a funeral bell.
Then came the final act: the register.
The book was thick, its pages full of names and dates — strangers whose lives had been sealed here before mine.
I picked up the pen like it weighed a ton. The signature line stared back at me, daring me.
This is it, Yue. Say goodbye to freedom. Say hello to abs. No—security. Say hello to security.
The faintest curve touched Hanchuan's lips, gone before I could blink.
My fingers trembled just enough for me to curse myself. I pressed the nib down, scrawled my name in bold, dramatic loops. If I was dooming myself, I was doing it with flair.
Hanchuan followed with a crisp, precise signature. The clerk stamped again.
And just like that, we were official husband and wife.
The clerk slid two small red booklets across the counter. "Next."
I stared at mine. The cover gleamed under the fluorescent lights, gold characters spelling out my new fate. Inside, my awkward photo beamed like the mugshot of someone caught stealing bubble tea. Beside it, Hanchuan looked like he'd just been promoted Emperor.
Nineteen years of life, one scandal, one contract, and now I'm a married woman with a five-second stamp. Someone cue applause. Or a funeral march.
Hanchuan picked up his booklet and tucked it neatly into his jacket pocket. Like it had always belonged there.
We stepped out into the daylight, certificate in hand.
I was still mourning my photo. "I look like a sleep-deprived raccoon. This is public record, Hanchuan. People will see this."
His gaze slid down to me, calm and maddening. "Beautiful," he said, short and sweet.
My brain short-circuited. Oh my god. Did he just—did he actually just flirt with me? Like, yeah. I know I'm objectively pretty…but being praised in such a straightforward manner by such a handsome man is a little too stimulating.
Heat slammed into my face so hard I nearly tripped on the Bureau steps.
"Don't say things like that!" I snapped, shoving the certificate against his arm as if that would erase the embarrassment I felt.
His lips twitched, subtle, quick.
"I'll burn this building down if anyone ever sees that photo," I grumbled in resentment.
He glanced at me sidelong, unreadable, though the faintest ghost of amusement lingered at his mouth.
The red booklet burned hot in my palm, heavier than paper had any right to be.
And just like that, it was done. I have made a deal with the devil.