Rhea doesn't argue anymore.
She doesn't defend herself.
She just turns and walks.
Fast.
Past the fire. Past the tents. Into the trees.
Her pulse is loud in her ears, anger and something sharper tangling in her chest. She tells herself she's furious—at Mira, at the stupidity of pretending, at Ling's arrogance.
She tells herself a lot of things.
She finds Ling near the tree line.
Bent forward. One hand braced against a trunk. The other clenched tight at her side.
Her eyes are red.
Not irritated-red.
Raw.
Tears slip down despite her control—betrayed by the salt burning her throat, her eyes, her head pounding like punishment.
Ling wipes her face roughly, jaw locked, breathing measured like she can discipline her body into obedience.
Rhea stops.
The sight hits her harder than the taste ever did.
"What are you doing?" Rhea blurts out, voice breaking sharp. "Are you insane?"
Ling straightens instantly, wiping her eyes again, spine snapping back into place. "Go back."
"You ate all of it," Rhea snaps, stepping closer. "You—idiot—do you have some death wish?"
Ling opens her mouth to reply.
Rhea doesn't let her.
She moves forward—
And wraps her arms around Ling.
Hard.
Sudden.
Protective.
Her forehead presses into Ling's shoulder, hands gripping the back of her jacket like she's afraid Ling might fall apart if she lets go.
"Are you insane," Rhea mutters again, voice shaking now, "who eats salt like that?"
Ling freezes.
Her arms stay at her sides.
Her breath stutters once—just once—against Rhea's hair.
Then—
Rhea realizes.
She's hugging her.
Not in anger.
Not in performance.
In fear.
Her body stiffens.
Her hands loosen slightly but don't let go.
"What am I—" Rhea whispers, pulling back just enough to look up at Ling's face.
Red eyes. Wet lashes. Control cracked, not broken.
Ling looks down at her.
Close. Too close.
"You didn't know," Ling says quietly. No accusation. No defense. Just fact.
Rhea's chest tightens painfully.
"I still—" She swallows. "You shouldn't have—"
"I didn't want you to taste it," Ling interrupts. Her voice is hoarse now. "That's all."
Rhea steps back abruptly, hands dropping like she's been burned.
"I—" Her breath comes uneven. "I don't do this."
Ling doesn't ask what.
She already knows.
Rhea turns away sharply, rubbing at her own eyes like irritation caused the heat there.
"Don't ever do that again," she snaps. "Pretending. Sacrificing. Whatever that was."
Ling's mouth curves faintly. Tired. Unsteady. Dangerous.
"You hugged me," Ling says.
Rhea spins back. "No, I didn't."
"You did."
Rhea's pride flares instantly. "I slipped."
Ling's eyes soften—just for a second. Enough to terrify them both.
"Sure," Ling says.
Rhea glares, heartbeat betraying her.
She storms past Ling, voice sharp over her shoulder. "Next time, let me fail properly."
Ling watches her go, fingers flexing where Rhea had held her.
Her throat still burns.
Her head still aches.
But her chest—
Her chest feels warm in a way no victory ever has.
Night folds the camp back into itself.
Tents zip shut one by one. Voices dull. Laughter thins into tired murmurs. The jungle breathes louder when people finally quiet down.
Rhea sits alone in her tent.
Only now—when there's no one watching—does it hit her.
The hug.
The panic in her voice.
The way her body moved before permission.
I don't do that.
Her fingers curl into the blanket. Her jaw tightens.
Then the memories start lining up, one by one, merciless.
Ling's finger—burned, ignored.
Ling's red eyes in the trees.
And worse—
Ling stopping her.
Ling protecting her from her own failure.
Ling taking the consequences so Rhea wouldn't have to feel small.
Rhea presses her palm to her face, breath shallow.
"What is wrong with me?" she whispers.
She thinks of Kane.
Of warnings sharpened into rules.
Of love framed as weakness.
Of control being the only acceptable safety.
A tear slips free before she can stop it.
She wipes it away angrily.
"No," she mutters. "This doesn't mean anything."
But her chest aches like something has been pulled too tight for too long.
Across the camp, Ling sits on the edge of her tent, back straight, movements measured as she wraps her burned finger properly this time.
The skin is angry red.
It throbs in time with her pulse.
Her head still aches faintly. Her throat burns when she swallows.
She welcomes it.
Pain is simple. Pain listens.
What doesn't listen is her mother's voice, echoing uninvited.
Stay in control.
Don't let distractions weaken you.
You don't need softness.
Ling closes her eyes.
For the first time in years, tears gather—not from salt, not from smoke.
She exhales slowly, forcing the tears back before they fall.
She will not cry.
She doesn't do that.
Instead, she flexes her injured finger once, jaw tightening.
I protected her, Ling tells herself. That's all.
Ling lies back, staring at the dark canvas above her, heart unsteady in a way no opponent has ever managed.
Rhea tells herself not to.
She lies on her side, phone face-down, staring at the tent wall like it personally offended her. Her thumb itches. Her chest feels tight for no reason she's willing to accept.
Don't, she thinks.
You don't care.
Her hand moves anyway.
The screen lights up.
Ling Kwong.
Verified. Of course. Millions of followers.
Rhea hesitates.
Then taps.
The first picture loads.
Ling on her bike.
Black leather, helmet under her arm, city lights bleeding into the background. Jaw sharp, eyes lifted—not smiling, not posing. The caption is a single line:
Momentum doesn't ask permission.
Rhea exhales through her nose.
"Arrogant," she mutters.
She saves the image.
She doesn't know why.
The next photo—basketball court.
Ling mid-air, jersey lifted just enough to show muscle and control, sweat on her skin, crowd blurred beneath her. Victory frozen. The caption:
Noise fades. Precision doesn't.
Rhea swallows.
She remembers that match. Remembers refusing to look. Remembers looking anyway.
Her fingers tighten around the phone.
She scrolls.
Older photos.
Ling at seventeen—still sharp, still controlled, but younger. Less guarded. Sitting on the hood of a car with Rina, arm slung loose, eyes almost… relaxed.
Caption: Family keeps the edges blunt.
Rhea's chest twinges.
She hadn't expected that.
Another picture.
Ling in a suit at some corporate gala. Eliza beside her, proud hand at Ling's back. Ling's smile is polite. Perfect. Empty.
Caption: Expectation is inherited.
Rhea pauses longer here.
She studies Ling's eyes in the photo—how they don't quite match the curve of her mouth.
"Is that how it is?" Rhea whispers. "Always?"
She scrolls again.
A rare candid.
Ling laughing—actually laughing—head tilted back slightly, hair loose, sunlight catching her face. No caption. Just a date from years ago.
Rhea's breath catches.
She's never seen Ling like that.
The jealousy that flares surprises her with its violence.
Who did that?
Who got that version of you?
She locks the phone.
Then unlocks it again.
Goes back.
Zooms in.
Her thumb traces the screen without touching the image, hovering over Ling's face like that could bridge something impossible.
Her mind replays the day in fragments—
Rhea's eyes sting.
She blinks hard.
"This is stupid," she tells herself.
She scrolls to the very first post.
A single photo.
Ling standing on a rooftop at night, back to the camera, city stretched endlessly below.
Caption:
Control is not loneliness. It's choice.
Rhea laughs softly.
It sounds wrong in the quiet tent.
"Liar," she murmurs.
She puts the phone down like it weighs too much.
Her heart is beating too fast.
She doesn't follow Ling.
She doesn't like the photo.
She doesn't comment.
But she lies there, staring into the dark, feeling like she's trespassed somewhere private and irreversible.
Not Ling's profile.
Her own defenses.
And somewhere in another tent, Ling Kwong sleeps badly—unaware that the girl who swore she felt nothing now knows the exact curve of her solitude, pixel by pixel.