The morning hadn't begun until Lingling Kwong arrived.
Her Rolls‑Royce Rose Droptail rested at the center of the courtyard like a crown placed on asphalt—black body gleaming, rose-gold accents catching the sun. Power, distilled into metal.
Ling in brown blazer over beige shirt neck chain visible sat on the hood.
One knee bent, boot planted on chrome, blazer crisp over a fitted beige shirt. Tailored trousers traced her long, athletic frame. Hair loose. Expression bored. Dangerous.
Students formed a line in front of her.
Freshers. Seniors. Anyone unfortunate enough to cross her path.
One by one, they stopped. Answered questions. Endured mockery. Some stammered. Some smiled too hard. Some shook.
Ling didn't raise her voice.
She didn't need to.
"Name," she said flatly to a boy.
He answered.
She tilted her head. "Wrong tone."
The boy swallowed and corrected himself.
Ling waved him away without looking.
Another girl stepped forward.
Ling's eyes flicked once—dismissive. "Shoes aren't polished. Fix that before you get out of here"
The girl fled.
Ragging wasn't chaos for Ling.
It was order.
Then—
A pause.
The line murmured.
Ling sensed it before she saw it.
Late footsteps. Unhurried. Disrespectful.
Her eyes lifted.
Rhea Nior walked in through the gates.
Late. As always.
She wore a fitted off-shoulder top in deep ivory, hugging her chest, flowing just enough to suggest softness without surrendering control. A high-waist skirt traced her hips, stopping just below the knee. Heels steady. Jewelry deliberate—earrings catching light, nose ring glinting like defiance.
Her hair fell in soft, dark waves, volume intentional. Makeup minimal but sharp—lips full, eyes commanding.
She didn't slow.
She didn't look at the line.
She didn't join it.
She walked past.
Ling laughed.
The sound cut the air.
"Oh," Ling said, amused and cruel, sliding off the hood with lazy grace. "Look at that."
Rhea kept walking.
Ling straightened fully now, tall, lean, radiating authority.
"Miss Attitude," Ling called out. "Where do you think you're going?"
Rhea stopped—but didn't turn.
Ling smiled thinly.
"You don't get exemptions," Ling continued, voice cool. "You're not special."
Rhea turned slowly.
Her gaze traveled over Ling once—not admiring. Not intimidated.
Evaluating.
"I'm late," Rhea said calmly. "Not lost."
A few students gasped.
Shin lings admirer less than a assistant took one step forward.
"Stand in line," Shin ordered, pointing with two fingers. "Here. With the rest."
Rhea looked at the line. The bowed heads. The fear.
Then back at Ling.
"No," she said simply.
That word landed harder than any insult.
Ling's eyes darkened.
Ling moved closer until they were only inches apart. Ling of 5'9 Rhea of 5'6 Up close, Rhea's presence was worse—warm, composed, unshaken. The nose ring caught the sun. Her lips were relaxed. Confident.
Ling hated noticing that.
Hated that her gaze lingered half a second too long.
"You'll regret this," Ling said, low enough for only Rhea to hear. "I make people kneel."
Rhea leaned in just enough to answer.
"So do I," she murmured. "Eventually."
She stepped past Ling and walked away.
Ling didn't stop her.
But her hands clenched at her sides.
The line remained frozen. The Rolls-Royce gleamed behind her. Power still bent to her will.
And yet—
Lingling Kwong stood there with one undeniable truth burning through her rage:
Rhea Nior hadn't refused to bow.
She had refused to recognize the throne at all.
Ling watched her disappear into the building, jaw tight, pulse treacherous.
She didn't realize—
—that Rhea had already chosen where Ling herself would fall.