Ling's fingers still for a fraction of a second after the bandage is secured.
She leans back, jaw clenched, eyes deliberately cold again—as if nothing intimate just happened with her mouth at Rhea's skin, as if her hands didn't memorize the curve of her waist.
"Done," Ling says flatly.
Rhea doesn't thank her.
She doesn't even flinch.
She hops down from the cot like her body isn't buzzing, like her breath didn't almost fracture minutes ago. Her face is perfectly composed—chin lifted, lips neutral, eyes sharp.
"Overreacted," Rhea says, brushing invisible dust from her shorts. "It was nothing."
Ling's mouth curves—not a smile. A warning.
"Nothing bleeds that much."
Rhea's eyes flash. "You enjoy control too much."
Ling steps closer once. Just once.
"So do you. You just pretend it's pride."
Silence snaps between them.
Rhea doesn't look at Ling again. She turns and walks out.
Her back is straight. Her steps are steady.
Only when she's far enough—past the trees, past the noise of students, past the place where Ling's presence stops pressing on her lungs—does her control finally crack.
She ducks behind a supply tent.
Her hands shake first.
Then her breath stutters.
Her shoulders tremble, but no sob escapes—just silent, violent breaths tearing through her chest.
Kane's voice rises uninvited.
Victor's blood runs in her.You are not allowed to be weak.You will destroy her, or I will destroy you.
Tears spill anyway.
Hot. Furious. Humiliating.
She hates herself for them.
Hates that Ling Kwong's touch felt safer than anyone else's ever has.
Hates that her body leaned in when her mind screamed don't.
Hates that revenge suddenly feels like standing on a cliff with no ground left behind her.
Kane's voice echoes in her head again .
I'll break you before her.
Rhea digs her nails into her palm until it hurts enough to anchor her.
"I'm not weak," she whispers to no one.
But her chest aches like a lie.
Then call comes.
Rhea's phone vibrates, the screen lighting up.
Shyra.
Rhea stares at the name for a full three seconds before answering. She wipes her face hard with the back of her hand, drags in a breath, schools her voice into something passable.
"Hey."
There's a pause on the other end.
Not long—but long enough.
"How's the trip?" Shyra asks lightly. Too lightly.
Rhea presses the phone closer to her ear, turning her face toward the canvas wall so no one passing can see her expression. "Fine. Loud. Dirty. Typical university nonsense."
Another pause.
Shyra hears it.
The way Rhea's words are steady but her breathing isn't. The way her voice sounds stretched thin, like silk pulled too tight.
"You sound tired," Shyra says gently.
Rhea swallows. "Long day."
In the background, Kane's voice cuts in—sharp, impatient.
"Ask her if she's enjoying herself."
Rhea hears it.
Her fingers curl around the phone.
Shyra exhales softly, then raises her voice just enough. "Mom wants to know if you're enjoying the trip."
Rhea closes her eyes.
This is the dangerous part.
"Yeah," she says, forcing a careless laugh that scrapes her throat raw. "I'm enjoying it."
Silence.
Not from Kane.
From Shyra.
Shyra looks at Kane, who is watching her closely, reading her face like a battlefield map.
"She says she's enjoying it," Shyra tells Kane calmly.
Kane nods once, satisfied. "Good. Tell her to remember why she's there."
The line clicks dead on Kane's end.
Shyra doesn't hang up.
Instead, she walks away from Kane, into the quiet of the corridor, and lowers her voice.
"Rhea."
That one word almost undoes her.
Rhea turns her face, biting her lip hard to stop the sound that tries to escape her chest. "What?"
"You're crying," Shyra says softly. Not accusing. Just knowing.
Rhea squeezes her eyes shut. "I'm not."
"Rhea."
The way Shyra says her name—slow, aching, protective—cracks something fragile.
"I'm fine," Rhea whispers. "I just… I hate this place."
Shyra sits down on the edge of the bed back home, phone pressed to her ear, heart heavy. "Did someone hurt you?"
Rhea thinks of Ling's hands—careful, warm.
Of her voice—low, furious, protective.
Of how safe that terrified her.
"No," Rhea says quickly. "No one hurt me."
Shyra knows better than to push.
"Listen to me," she says quietly. "Whatever Mom is planning… you don't have to bleed for it."
Rhea's throat tightens. "You don't understand."
"I understand more than you think," Shyra replies. "And I understand that you don't cry for nothing."
Rhea presses her knuckles to her mouth.
"I'm okay," she repeats, but now it sounds like a plea. "Please don't worry. Don't tell her anything."
"I won't," Shyra promises. Then, softer, "But Rhea… if someone makes you feel safe and scared at the same time—"
"Don't," Rhea cuts in sharply.
Shyra falls silent.
After a moment, she only says, "Call me if it gets worse."
Rhea nods even though Shyra can't see it. "Okay."
The call ends.
Rhea lowers the phone slowly, her hand trembling now that she's alone again.
Outside the tent, the camp buzzes with laughter and movement.
And somewhere beyond the firelight, Ling Kwong sits astride her bike, staring into the dark jungle like it might give her answers she refuses to ask.
Both of them breathing.
Both of them breaking.
And Kane Nior, miles away, smiling—completely unaware that the weapon she forged is starting to turn inward.