The car ride to the university passed in silence. Ling stared out the window, watching the city wake up—students rushing, vendors opening shops, life continuing as if nothing had almost ended yesterday.
Her phone buzzed once.
A message from the hospital confirming Rhea's discharge papers had been finalized.
Ling didn't reply.
She locked the screen.
She's home, Ling thought distantly. Safe.
That was enough. It had to be.
Across the city, Rhea stood in front of her mirror, fingers trembling as she adjusted her dress.
She looked better today. Color had returned faintly to her face. Her lips were no longer blue. But there was a fragility to her movements, like her body remembered how close it had come to shutting down.
Kane watched her from the doorway.
"You don't have to go today," Kane said. "You should rest."
Rhea shook her head immediately. "No. I'm fine."
The word fine tasted like ash.
"I don't want to fall behind," Rhea added quickly. "I just… want normal."
Kane nodded, satisfied.
Normal meant distance. Normal meant obedience. Normal meant Ling wasn't part of the equation.
Rhea grabbed her bag, pausing for a brief second as a strange feeling passed through her chest—tight, inexplicable. She ignored it.
I don't care, she reminded herself firmly. I hate her.
The lie slid into place easily now. Too easily.
The car pulled up to the university gates.
Rhea stared out the window.
The campus looked exactly as it always had.
Familiar paths. Tall buildings. Students clustered in groups, laughing, arguing, living.
Her stomach flipped.
She hadn't known.
No one had told her.
This wasn't just a university.
It was Ling's university.
The one owned, funded, controlled by the Kwong name.
Rhea swallowed hard, pulse spiking.
"She doesn't come here," Rhea muttered to herself. "She won't be here."
She had no idea how wrong she was.
---
Ling stepped out of her car at the opposite end of campus.
The moment her heels hit the pavement, the air shifted. Heads turned. Conversations lowered. Professors straightened unconsciously.
Ling Kwong had arrived.
She walked with purpose, eyes forward, mind locked down. Today was about schedules, faculty, donors. Not memories. Not hospital rooms. Not pale lips and whispered taunts.
Then—something tugged at her.
A sensation she hated because it made no sense.
Ling stopped.
Just for half a second.
Her chest tightened, breath catching sharply before she could stop it. Her fingers curled slightly at her side.
Focus, she ordered herself.
She continued walking.
At the same moment, Rhea stepped through another entrance on the far side of campus.
She felt it too.
That sudden, inexplicable pull—like walking into a room where someone had just said your name.
Rhea slowed, frowning, hand pressing briefly to her sternum.
"Get a grip," she whispered. "You're imagining things."
Two women moved through the same university.
Same halls. Same air. Same unspoken gravity.
Both convinced the other was gone.
Both lying—to survive.
And fate, cruel and patient, had finally placed them on the same ground again.
They just didn't know it yet.
Rhea slipped into the classroom a few minutes early, moving carefully, conserving energy the way her body now instinctively did. The room smelled faintly of marker ink and old books. Students were already seated, low conversations buzzing under the ceiling fans.
She took her usual seat near the window.
The class representative turned in her chair immediately, lowering her voice.
"You're back," she said, relief mixed with curiosity. "Good. Listen—new professor came last week."
Rhea hummed softly, pulling her notebook out. "Okay."
"Too strict," the CR continued, rolling her eyes. "Like, ridiculously strict. Third day, she asked for absent names. No application, no excuse—nothing."
Rhea frowned slightly. "And?"
"And you were absent," the CR said. "So I had to send your name."
Rhea's hand stilled over the page.
"Oh," she said after a beat. "It's fine."
It wasn't, but she didn't have the energy to care.
"She doesn't tolerate excuses," the CR added. "Didn't even ask why. Just wrote everything down. Said she'd deal with it herself."
Rhea nodded, still distracted, flipping open her notebook. Hospital discharge counts as an excuse, she told herself vaguely. Worst case, I'll explain.
The door at the front of the class opened.
Conversation died instantly.
Rhea didn't look up at first—she was still writing the date at the top of the page. Her pen paused mid-stroke when she felt it.
That pressure again.
Heavy. Immediate. Suffocating.
The kind of presence that didn't need to announce itself.
The professor's heels clicked against the floor—slow, deliberate, unhurried.
Rhea's chest tightened.
Why does this feel familiar? she thought, unease creeping up her spine.
"Good morning," a voice said.
Low. Controlled. Ice wrapped around steel.
Rhea's breath hitched.
Her pen slipped from her fingers, clattering softly onto the desk.
No.
Her heart started pounding, too fast, too hard.
That voice had haunted her sleep. Had begged her to stay awake. Had screamed her name in terror.
Rhea lifted her head slowly.
Time fractured.
Ling stood at the front of the classroom.
Composed. Untouchable.
Black suit. Hair pulled back. Expression carved from stone.
Professor Ling Kwong.
Rhea's vision blurred instantly.
Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
Ling's eyes swept the room clinically—faces, posture, silence. Then they stopped.
Locked.
Right on Rhea.
For the briefest, devastating second, something cracked.
Not enough for anyone else to see.
Enough for both of them to feel it.
Ling's jaw tightened.
Rhea's chest burned.
Then Ling looked away.
As if Rhea didn't exist.
"As some of you are aware," Ling said coolly, turning to the board, "I joined this department last week."
Rhea couldn't breathe.
She didn't leave, her mind screamed.
Or worse—
She stayed and never came to see me.
Anger surged, sharp and dizzying, cutting through the shock.
Ling picked up the attendance sheet.
"I do not tolerate unexplained absences," she continued. "Names without formal applications were recorded."
Her finger moved down the page.
Rhea watched it, frozen, heart hammering in her ears.
Then—
"Rhea."
Ling said her name like a sentence.
Like a verdict.
The room felt too small.
Rhea swallowed hard, hands shaking as she forced herself to speak. "Yes."
Ling's gaze lifted again—cold now, distant, professional to the point of cruelty.
"After class," Ling said evenly. "You'll stay back."
A murmur rippled through the room.
Rhea nodded stiffly, jaw clenched, eyes burning.
"Yes, professor."
Inside, everything was on fire.
Because now she knew.
Ling hadn't disappeared.
She had just learned how to stand in front of her—
And pretend she meant nothing.