Ling didn't wait for the stretcher.
The moment Rhea coughed—weak, broken—Ling's arms slid beneath her without thought. One arm under her knees, the other supporting her back.
Gasps echoed.
Everyone knew the rule.
Ling touched No one.
Ling didn't carry people.
Yet here she was.
Rhea's body was warm and heavy against her chest, soaked fabric clinging to curves Ling absolutely refused to notice—and failed. Water dripped from Rhea's hair onto Ling's arm, each drop grounding, undeniable.
"What are yo__" Rhea said.
"Clear the corridor," Ling said.
Not loud.
Final.
She moved before Rhea could speak.
Before she herself could think about the fact that her lips were still burning.
Before she could face the truth clawing at her chest—
That she hadn't jumped into that pool because she was in control.
She had jumped because the thought of losing Rhea Nior
had felt unbearable.
Jian and Rowen moved instantly, pushing students back, blocking sightlines. The crowd dissolved, stunned into obedience.
Mira took a step forward. "Ling, the med—"
Ling didn't look at her.
"Not you."
Two words. Cold. Absolute.
Mira froze.
Ling walked.
Boots steady. Spine straight. Expression unreadable.
Inside, something was cracking.
She could feel Rhea's breathing—shallow, uneven. Feel the faint tremor in her fingers when Ling adjusted her grip. Rhea's head fell against Ling's shoulder, lips parting as if to speak and failing.
Ling's jaw tightened.
You don't get to be fragile, she thought fiercely.
Not in my arms.
The private changing room doors slid open.
No one had ever been carried in here.
Ling laid Rhea down gently—gently—on the padded bench, hands lingering a second too long before she forced them away. Rhea's swimsuit was darkened with water, clinging, exposing the rise and fall of her chest.
Ling turned her face away sharply.
This was not her.
She was efficient. Controlled. Detached.
She didn't watch people breathe.
But she checked Rhea's pulse anyway.
Strong. There.
Relief hit her like shame.
Ling dragged a towel from the rack and wrapped it around Rhea's shoulders, movements precise, almost careful. Her fingers brushed Rhea's collarbone accidentally.
She pulled back as if burned.
"Idiot," Ling muttered—to herself.
Rhea stirred.
Barely.
Her lashes fluttered. Her lips moved.
Ling leaned closer without realizing she was doing it.
"…cold," Rhea whispered, voice raw.
Ling froze.
She took her blazer from rack and draped it over Rhea without hesitation—tailored fabric against soaked skin, absurdly intimate.
If anyone had seen this, they wouldn't have believed it.
Ling straightened, forcing distance.
"This changes nothing," she said quietly, as if Rhea could hear. "You don't get special treatment."
Her eyes betrayed her.
Because this was special.
Rhea shifted again, brow furrowing, breath hitching as consciousness tried to return. Her fingers caught the edge of Ling's sleeve—weak, unconscious instinct.
Ling looked down at that grip.
Something dangerous settled in her chest.
She didn't pull away.
Outside the door, Mira stood frozen, nails biting into her palm.
Inside the room, Lingling Kwong—who ruled through fear, hierarchy, and distance—stood guard over an unconscious girl she was never supposed to touch.
And for the first time in her life, Ling understood the truth she had been fighting since yesterday:
She hadn't jumped into the water to save a rival.
She had jumped because losing Rhea
felt impossible to survive.
The room stayed silent.
But control—
Control had already slipped through her fingers.