Ling entered the dining room already dressed, hair neat, expression calm—back in her armor.
Sunlight spilled across the long table. Breakfast sat untouched.
Eliza noticed immediately.
"You should rest today," Eliza said, trying to sound casual, reaching for a cup she didn't drink from. "Spend time with us. You hardly ever do."
Ling paused, surprised. "I can't. I have work in the evening."
"We can go somewhere," Eliza said quickly. "Lunch, maybe. Just—stay."
Ling softened. She pulled out a chair but didn't sit.
"Another day," she said gently. "Please."
Eliza's mouth opened as if to insist again.
Then her eyes shimmered.
Just slightly.
But Ling saw it.
She was beside her mother in an instant.
Ling knelt in front of Eliza's chair, uncaring of posture or pride. She took Eliza's face between her hands, thumbs warm against tear-bright skin.
"What's bothering you?" Ling asked quietly. "Tell me."
Eliza's breath wavered.
"Nothing," she said, too fast. "I'm fine."
Ling studied her—really studied her. The lines of strain. The way Eliza's hands trembled in her lap.
"You're lying," Ling said softly. Not accusing. Just certain.
Eliza forced a smile. "I'm just tired."
Ling didn't push.
Instead, she leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to Eliza's forehead—the same way she had when she was a child and Eliza pretended not to need comfort.
"I'll be back," Ling said quietly. "Alright?"
She smiled, small and reassuring. "Okay?"
Eliza nodded, tears slipping free despite herself.
"Okay," she whispered.
Ling stood, straightened her jacket, and glanced once at the rest of the table—Victor, Rina, Dadi—all watching her as if she might vanish.
She didn't notice.
She never did.
As Ling walked out, Eliza covered her mouth, shoulders shaking silently.
Dadi closed her eyes.
Because every step Ling took away from that table
was another step closer to the truth—
and farther from the night they barely survived.
The lecture hall was already full.
Low murmurs rippled through the room as students settled into their seats, laptops opening, notebooks flipping. The atmosphere shifted the moment Ling Kwong entered—posture straight, expression composed, presence absolute.
The room fell quiet.
Ling placed her bag down with precision, adjusted her sleeves, and faced the class. Her face was calm, cool, professional—no trace of the night before, no hint of trembling roots or whispered names.
Only control.
"Good morning," she said evenly.
A chorus of greetings followed, polite and careful.
Ling began the lecture without hesitation, voice steady, cadence sharp. Her mind stayed where it needed to be—on structure, logic, order.
Then—
The door creaked open.
Late.
Heads turned instinctively.
Ling didn't look up at first. She continued speaking, finishing her sentence deliberately, giving the interruption exactly as much attention as it deserved.
"—which is why assumptions without diagnosis lead to fatal errors in practice."
Only then did she lift her gaze.
Rhea Nior stood in the doorway.
Unapologetic.
Bag slung over one shoulder. Chin lifted. Eyes bright with intent. She wasn't rushed. She wasn't flustered.
She was doing this on purpose.
Ling's chest tightened before she could stop it.
Her heart—traitorous—melted at the sight of her.
Rhea's hair was loose today, framing her face in a way that made Ling's focus stutter for half a second too long. Her expression was sharp, defiant, daring Ling to react.
Ling felt it immediately.
That pull.
That dangerous warmth.
She shut it down.
Her face cooled instantly, eyes hardening as she straightened.
"Miss Nior," Ling said, voice crisp, cutting clean through the room. "You're late."
Rhea smirked faintly as she walked in, unhurried, the sound of her footsteps echoing far too loudly.
"Traffic," Rhea said lazily. "And your class isn't exactly inspiring punctuality."
A ripple of tension moved through the room.
Someone sucked in a breath.
Ling's fingers tightened around the edge of the lectern.
Inside, her heart did something humiliating—softened further, aching at the familiar bite in Rhea's voice, the spark, the challenge.
Outside—
Ice.
"Take a seat," Ling said coolly. "Your commentary is neither requested nor relevant."
Rhea stopped mid-step.
Her eyes flashed.
"Oh?" she said, tilting her head. "You asked why I was late."
Ling met her gaze without blinking.
"And you answered," Ling replied. "Poorly."
A few students shifted uncomfortably. No one dared look directly at either of them now.
Ling continued, voice even, professional, deadly calm.
"This is a medical lecture hall, not a forum for attitude. If you wish to test authority, do it somewhere else."
Rhea's lips pressed together.
For a second—just one—Ling saw it.
The way Rhea's jaw tightened.
The way her eyes darkened.
The way she felt it.
Good.
Ling hated that part of herself that felt relief at it.
"Sit down," Ling said firmly.
Rhea held her gaze another moment, then scoffed softly and moved to her seat, dropping into it with deliberate force.
Ling waited until she was seated.
Only then did she continue the lecture.
Her voice didn't waver.
Her posture didn't soften.
To the rest of the class, Professor Kwong was exactly as she always was—untouchable, intimidating, razor-sharp.
Students took notes faster now. No one whispered. No one dared challenge her.
They feared her.
Ling needed that.
Because every time her eyes flicked—against her will—toward Rhea's seat…
Her heart betrayed her.
And she hated how much she liked that Rhea knew it
and came anyway.
Ling had just turned back to the board.
Marker in hand.
Voice steady.
Control reclaimed—at least on the surface.
Then—
"Haris," Rhea's voice cut through the lecture hall, deliberately loud, deliberately sweet.
"Can you give me a pen? I forgot mine."
Ling's hand paused mid-motion.
Just for a fraction of a second.
Haris startled slightly at the sound of his name. He glanced at Rhea like she'd just handed him a gift instead of a request. His ears flushed red instantly.
"Uh—yeah. Yeah, sure," he said quickly.
He fumbled with his pencil case, fingers clumsy, nervous. When he handed the pen over, he smiled—soft, hopeful, unmistakably fond.
"No problem," he said. "Anytime."
Rhea took it slowly.
Her fingers brushed his on purpose.
"Thanks," she said, eyes lingering on him for just a beat too long.
Then—
Ling turned.
Her eyes landed on Haris.
And stayed there.
Cold.
Assessing.
Sharp enough to cut.
Haris felt it immediately.
His smile faltered. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, suddenly very aware of where he was, whose class this was, and who was watching him like he'd just committed a crime.
He looked down at his desk, shoulders tensing, refusing to meet Ling's gaze.
Ling stared at him a second longer than necessary.
Then she turned back to the board.
And continued lecturing.
As if nothing had happened.
As if she hadn't just marked him.
Rhea watched it all from her seat.
Every microsecond.
The way Ling's shoulders stiffened.
The way her jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
The way her voice sharpened afterward, edges turning colder, stricter.
Rhea's lips curved slowly.
A satisfied little bend at the corner of her mouth.
She twirled the pen between her fingers, eyes flicking lazily back to Ling's back.
She leaned back in her chair, posture relaxed, victorious in a quiet, dangerous way.
Ling continued her lecture flawlessly.
But the marker squeaked slightly against the board now.
Her handwriting grew sharper.
Her tone more severe.
Students felt it.
They always did.
Professor Kwong was in a mood.
And only one person in the room knew exactly why.
Rhea tapped the pen lightly against her notebook, eyes bright, unrepentant.
She liked it.
She liked knowing that beneath the ice, beneath the authority, beneath the control—
Ling Kwong was watching.
And losing it.
The lecture ended sharply.
"Read chapters seven and eight," Ling said, already closing her folder. "Quiz next session."
Chairs scraped. Voices rose. Relief spread through the room.
Ling didn't look at anyone as she walked out.
Her pace was brisk—controlled, efficient—but her jaw was tight. She turned down the corridor toward her office, heels clicking in precise rhythm.
Behind her—
Rhea followed.
Not obviously.
Not directly.
She slowed, pretending to type something on her phone, drifting just enough to look coincidental. Anyone watching would assume she was headed toward one of the adjacent faculty offices.
Anyone except Ling.
Ling felt her presence immediately.
She didn't turn around.
Didn't acknowledge it.
Didn't allow herself the satisfaction.
She reached her office door, unlocked it—
"Dr. Kwong."
Ling paused.
Marley stood there, leaning casually against the opposite wall, clipboard tucked under one arm. Her smile was polite, practiced—too familiar.
Ling turned. "Yes?"
"I was hoping to talk to you," Marley said lightly.
Ling nodded once. "About?"
Marley glanced briefly down the hallway.
Then—subtly—toward Rhea.
Rhea had stopped a few steps away, suddenly very absorbed in her phone, thumbs moving too fast, posture too deliberate. She didn't look up.
But she was listening.
Marley smiled again, softer now. "Not here."
Ling's eyebrow lifted slightly. "Not here?"
Marley stepped closer. "Your office. Maybe. It's… personal."
Ling felt it then.
That shift.
That quiet, dangerous awareness.
She didn't look at Rhea.
She didn't need to.
The timing was too perfect.
Ling's mouth curved—just barely.
"Of course," she said calmly. "Why not."
Rhea's thumbs stilled.
Just for a fraction of a second.
Ling turned and unlocked her office door, stepping aside to let Marley enter first. The movement was smooth, deliberate—an invitation wrapped in professionalism.
Marley walked in.
Ling followed.
The door closed behind them.
And then—
Click.
The lock slid into place.
The sound was soft.
Final.
Rhea's head snapped up.
Her eyes fixed on the door.
Her chest tightened instantly, heat flaring sharp and ugly beneath her ribs.
Locked.
Her jaw clenched.
She stared at the door like it had personally offended her, phone forgotten in her hand. A thousand thoughts crashed at once—none of them calm, none of them reasonable.
Inside the office—
Ling set her folder down slowly, back straight, expression unreadable.
Marley turned to face her, the room suddenly smaller, quieter.
"You don't mind if I locked it?" Marley asked. "I didn't want interruptions."
Ling met her gaze steadily.
"No," Ling said coolly. "Go on."
Outside—
Rhea didn't move.
Didn't breathe properly.
Her lips pressed into a thin line as jealousy coiled tight and vicious in her chest, sharper than before, louder than she wanted to admit.
Her fingers curled around her phone until it hurt.
Personal, she thought bitterly.
Locked.
Rhea's eyes burned.
And somewhere deep inside her—
she smiled.
Because she knew exactly what she was going to do next.
And because she knew—
Ling would feel it.