The door creaked open before either of them could say anything more.
The old man stepped inside, carrying the smell of wet earth and smoke with him. The storm had thinned outside; the mountain looked calmer, as if it had decided to spare them.
He took one look at Ling on her feet — bandaged, pale, jaw set — and nodded.
"You live," he said simply. "Good."
Ling inclined her head in acknowledgment. No gratitude. Just respect.
The man motioned toward the door. "Follow me. There's a safer route down. You won't find it yourselves."
Rhea didn't hesitate this time. She stepped closer to Ling, not touching, but near enough that if Ling staggered again, she could catch her.
They locked the hut behind them.
The descent was narrow, hidden between thick brush and rock — a path that didn't look like a path unless you knew where to look. The old man moved ahead easily, staff tapping stone, while Ling and Rhea followed carefully.
Ling stumbled once.
Rhea's hand shot out immediately, gripping her forearm.
Ling stiffened — then allowed it.
No comment.
No rejection.
Just movement.
After what felt like hours but was probably less than one, the trees thinned. Voices drifted up through the mist — laughter, engines, confusion.
The university group.
Rhea exhaled sharply. "We're back."
The old man stopped at the edge of the clearing. "From here, you remember your own world."
Ling met his gaze. "You saved us."
He shook his head. "You saved each other. I only kept the fire alive."
Then he turned and disappeared into the jungle, swallowed by green and shadow as if he'd never existed at all.
They stepped out into the clearing.
The reaction was immediate.
"Holy shit—" "Ling Kwong—?" "Rhea—where were you—?"
Students rushed forward, voices overlapping, panic breaking into relief. Someone ran to get the dean. Others stared at the bandage on Ling's head, the dried mud on both of them, the way they stood too close without realizing it.
Rina was the first to reach Ling.
"What the hell—" she stopped short when she saw the blood. "Ling—"
"I'm fine," Ling said automatically.
Rina's glare said she didn't believe a word.
Mira stood a little farther back, frozen. Her eyes flicked from Ling's bandage to Rhea — to the jacket Rhea was wearing, to the way Ling's body angled subtly toward her.
Something tight and ugly twisted in her expression.
The dean pushed through the crowd. "Where were you two? We were about to send search teams—"
"Bike failed," Ling said calmly. "Weather turned."
Her gaze didn't leave Rhea.
Rhea felt it — the weight of it — and lifted her chin, ego sliding back into place like armor.
"We're here now," Rhea said coolly. "That's all that matters."
But her fingers brushed Ling's sleeve — just once — before she pulled her hand away.
Ling noticed.
She always did.
And for the first time since this trip began, surrounded by noise, people, and safety, Ling Kwong realized something dangerous:
The mountain hadn't been the most threatening thing she'd faced.
Rhea Nior was.
And Ling was already losing ground.
Rina didn't give Ling a choice.
She grabbed her wrist the moment the dean turned away and dragged her straight toward the tents, voice low but sharp. "You're not saying you're fine one more time until I see you myself."
Ling didn't resist. She rarely let anyone pull her like that—but her head was still throbbing, her balance not perfect, and Rina knew it.
Inside the tent, Rina shoved a bottle of water into Ling's hand and pointed. "Sit. Now."
Ling obeyed, jaw tight.
Rina helped her clean up—wiped the dried mud from her hands, checked the bandage, replaced it with a fresh one from the first-aid kit the dean had finally sent. Ling hissed once when Rina tightened it.
"Don't," Rina warned. "You scared me."
That shut Ling up.
She changed into clean clothes slowly: a fitted tee, dark trousers, movements precise despite the ache. Control settling back into her bones, piece by piece.
Outside, the camp buzzed again. Relief. Curiosity. Whispers.
Rhea freshened up in another tent.
She washed her hands, her face, ran water through her hair, letting the cold clear her head. Her reflection stared back at her—pale, eyes sharp again, ego rebuilding itself carefully.
Then her fingers brushed her waist.
The navel piercing tugged.
She froze.
Rhea looked down and saw it clearly now: the piercing had caught slightly, twisted from the night before. The skin around it was red, sore. Dried blood still clung faintly where she hadn't cleaned it properly.
Annoyance flared—hot, irrational.
She tried once to adjust it.
Pain bit back.
"Fk, Great," she muttered.
For a second, a very dangerous thought crossed her mind: Ling would know how to fix this.
The thought made her angry enough to abandon the idea entirely.
Rhea straightened, dropped her shirt back into place, and turned away from the mirror.
She wasn't asking for help.
Not from Ling Kwong.
Not for this.
She stepped out of the tent with her chin lifted, pain ignored, irritation locked behind her eyes.
Across the clearing, Ling emerged from her tent at the same moment—clean, composed again, bandage stark against her dark hair.
Their eyes met.
Just briefly.
Ling's gaze flicked downward for half a second—too trained, too observant.
Rhea noticed.
She turned away immediately, expression sharpening, anger burning hotter because Ling had seen something she hadn't been meant to.
And Ling, watching her walk off, knew.
Rhea didn't feel it at first.
The camp was loud again—students talking over each other, bikes being checked, the dean arguing with someone about schedules. She stood near the edge, arms crossed, posture regal, refusing to show even a crack after what she'd survived.
Then a voice close to her.
"Hey—Rhea."
One of the boys from her group—too casual, too unaware—leaned in, eyes narrowing. "You're bleeding."
Rhea frowned slightly. "What?"
Before she could react, he reached out, fingers brushing the dark red stain seeping through the fabric near her navel.
"Looks bad," he said, touch lingering a second too long. "You okay?"
Rhea stiffened.
Her hand flew up, knocking his away sharply. "Don't touch me."
But the damage was done.
Across the clearing—
Ling saw everything.
The blood.
The hand.
The way Rhea's body went rigid.
Something hot and violent surged up Ling's spine, fast enough to make her vision narrow.
Her jaw clenched so hard it hurt.
Don't.
You don't get to react.
Her face stayed cold. Controlled. Disinterested.
Because that was the rule she lived by.
But her eyes—
Her eyes darkened.
The boy laughed awkwardly, holding up his hands. "Relax, I was just—"
Ling moved.
Not fast.
Not dramatic.
Just enough.
She stepped forward, stopping close enough that the boy felt it before he understood it. Ling didn't raise her voice. Didn't even glare.
She simply looked at him.
The kind of look that made people reconsider their entire existence.
"Keep your hands to yourself," Ling said calmly. "Unless you're asking to lose them."
The boy swallowed. "I—I didn't mean—"
"Walk," Ling finished.
He didn't argue.
He left immediately.
Rhea stared at Ling, shock flickering before her expression hardened again. "I didn't need that."
Ling's gaze flicked briefly—briefly—to the blood at Rhea's waist, then back to her eyes.
"I know," Ling said flatly.
She turned away as if that was the end of it.
As if her chest wasn't tight.
As if her hands weren't itching to do something reckless.
As if seeing someone else's fingers near Rhea's skin hadn't felt like a personal violation.
Rhea watched her, anger and confusion warring inside her.
"Then stop acting like you own the situation," Rhea snapped.
Ling paused.