Ling stood and moved closer to the bed.
Slowly. As if any sudden motion might wake something fragile—not Rhea, but whatever fragile thing had cracked open inside her.
She knelt.
The powerful, untouchable Ling Kwong knelt on the floor beside the bed she never shared.
Rhea slept quietly, chest rising and falling in an even rhythm now. Calm. Unaware of the chaos she had carved into Ling's carefully ordered world.
Ling stared.
Not like an enemy.
Not like a rival.
Like a woman undone.
Her gaze traced Rhea's face with unsettling devotion. The nose ring caught the dim light—small, defiant, impossibly her. Ling's fingers hovered near it but didn't touch, as if crossing that line would make everything real.
Her eyes moved lower.
Rhea's lips—soft, fuller even in rest, parted just slightly as she breathed. Not sharp. Not cruel. No smirk there now. Just vulnerability Ling had never been allowed to see before.
Her jawline wasn't sharp like Ling's—no angles, no edges to cut with. It was softer, fuller, human.
Ling swallowed.
She loved that.
The curve of it. The way it made Rhea look real instead of carved from ice. A small mole rested just below her jaw, almost missed if you didn't look closely.
Ling had noticed it the first day.
She hated that she remembered.
Her eyes flicked up to Rhea's lashes—thick, dark, resting against flushed skin. Brows naturally arched even in sleep, as if Rhea was always ready to challenge the world.
Ling exhaled shakily.
"Idiot," she whispered—not to Rhea, but to herself.
Her hand moved before her mind allowed it. She took Rhea's hand gently, as if asking permission even now. Warm. Alive. Steady.
Ling's breath hitched.
Tears slipped free—silent, traitorous.
"I don't understand this," she murmured, voice barely sound. "You're not supposed to matter."
Her thumb brushed lightly over Rhea's knuckles.
"I don't feel like this," she continued, jaw tightening. "I don't lose control. I don't panic. I don't—"
Her voice broke.
"I don't kneel."
Another tear fell, landing on Rhea's hand.
"Why do I feel like the world goes quiet when you close your eyes?" Ling whispered, eyes burning. "Why does the thought of losing you feel worse than losing everything else?"
She laughed softly, bitter and disbelieving.
"This isn't me," she said. "I don't fall. I don't want. I don't need."
Her grip tightened just a fraction—protective, instinctive.
"But when you stopped breathing," she confessed, voice shaking now, "I forgot who I was."
Silence answered her.
Rhea slept on, unaware that she had become Ling's greatest fear.
Ling bowed her head, forehead resting lightly against the edge of the mattress, still holding Rhea's hand.
"I won't say it," she whispered fiercely, as if daring the truth to fight her. "Not even to myself."
She squeezed Rhea's hand once—gentle, possessive, terrified.
"But whatever this is," Ling breathed, tears still falling, "it's already winning."
Then
Rhea's phone buzzed.
The sound was soft—but in the stillness of the room, it felt loud.
Ling flinched.
She looked at the screen lighting up on the bedside table.
Shyra.
The name meant nothing to Ling.
But the timing did.
Ling hesitated only a second before picking it up. Her thumb hovered, jaw tight. She glanced once at Rhea—still asleep, lashes unmoving, breath steady.
Then she answered.
"Hello?" Ling said quietly.
There was a pause on the other end. Then a woman's voice—warm, cautious, threaded with concern.
"Who is this?" Shyra asked. "Where is Rhea? She said she'd be back within an hour."
Ling's spine straightened.
She understood tension when she heard it.
"She's safe," Ling replied immediately. Too fast. Too sharp.
Silence stretched.
Shyra's voice returned, calmer now—but sharper beneath it. "Safe where?"
Ling looked down at Rhea again.
Her fingers tightened around the phone.
"She's staying here tonight," Ling said evenly. "She is in party so she can't talk now."
Another pause.
"And you are…?" Shyra asked.
Ling inhaled once.
"Ling Kwong."
The name landed heavy.
On the other end, Shyra didn't respond right away. When she did, her tone had shifted—measured, alert.
"…I see."
Ling didn't miss it.
"She'll return in the morning," Ling continued, voice firm but controlled. "You don't need to worry."
A beat.
Then Shyra said, "I always worry about my sister."
Something twisted in Ling's chest at that word.
Sister.
"I'll make sure she's fine," Ling said, quieter now. Not defensive—resolute.
Another silence.
Then Shyra spoke gently, but not without steel. "Please do."
The call ended.
Ling lowered the phone slowly.
Her heartbeat hadn't slowed.
She placed the phone back where it was, then sat there for a moment longer—processing what she'd just done.
She had lied.
Effortlessly.
Without thinking.
Ling exhaled sharply, almost a laugh—but it came out strained.
"What are you doing to me?" she whispered, eyes drifting back to Rhea's sleeping face.
She reached out again, brushing a loose strand of hair away from Rhea's forehead—careful, reverent.
"I don't even know who your family is," Ling murmured. "And yet I just claimed you like you're already mine."
She pulled her hand back immediately, as if burned.
"psycho," she muttered to herself.
But she didn't leave.
She stayed—sitting guard beside the bed, eyes fixed on the steady rise and fall of Rhea's chest—
Unaware that by answering that call, Ling Kwong had just stepped into a war she didn't yet know existed.