Minutes passed.
Then—
A knock.
Sharp. Deliberate.
Every head turned.
Ling didn't at first.
She told herself not to.
The door opened.
Rhea Nior stepped in.
Late. Unapologetic.
Ling's gaze lifted despite her will.
Unwanted.
Immediate.
Her heartbeat stumbled—once, then faster.
Rhea wore quiet confidence today—clean lines, composed, regal. Not defensive. Not provocative.
Indifferent.
Their eyes met.
For half a second, the room disappeared.
Then Rhea looked away.
Completely.
No challenge.
No smirk.
No acknowledgment at all.
It hit harder than any insult ever had.
Ling's fingers tightened against the desk.
Rhea walked past her without a glance, heels measured, chin lifted. She handed the professor her slip, took a seat—two rows back.
Not beside Ling.
Not near her.
Away.
Ling stared ahead again, face impassive.
Inside, something twisted—sharp, unfamiliar.
Rhea hadn't come to fight.
She'd come to withdraw.
And Ling Kwong—who ruled rooms with a look—felt something dangerous coil in her chest.
Attention wasn't demanded.
It was being denied.
And that was how Rhea began to break her.
Class Ended then Basket Ball Match.
The basketball court was packed.
It always was when Ling Kwong played.
Students filled the stands, phones out, eyes trained on the court like worshippers waiting for a miracle. The opposing team looked tense—no one liked being scheduled against her.
Ling stepped onto the court without ceremony.
No smirk.
No stretch for show.
No acknowledgment of the crowd.
Rina noticed immediately from the sidelines.
"She's off," someone murmured.
The whistle blew.
Ling played.
And she didn't lose.
She never did.
But she didn't dominate the way she usually did either.
No flashy drives.
No taunting spins.
No effortless three-pointers launched just to humiliate.
She moved with precision. Efficient. Clinical.
Points scored because they had to be.
Not because she wanted them.
The crowd grew restless.
"This isn't her usual style," someone whispered.
Rhea sat in the stands.
She didn't cheer.
Didn't look.
Didn't react when Ling scored or blocked or intercepted.
She spoke quietly with Zifa instead, head inclined, expression unreadable. When her eyes flicked to the court, they slid past Ling like she wasn't there.
Every time.
Ling saw it.
Felt it.
Her grip tightened on the ball more than necessary.
The final whistle blew.
Victory.
Applause rose—but it was confused, muted.
Ling walked off the court without looking up.
Sweat traced down her jaw, breath steady, face carved from control.
Rina met her at the edge. "You won."
Ling grabbed her towel. "I always do."
"That wasn't winning," Rina said softly. "That was surviving."
Ling's jaw flexed.
She glanced—once—toward the stands.
Rhea was already standing, bag slung over her shoulder, turning away without a backward glance.
Ling's chest tightened.
No flex.
No acknowledgment.
No reaction.
Rhea ignored her more deliberately than ever.
And Ling—who had never needed anyone's attention—felt the absence like a blade pressed slowly, expertly, against her control.
Ling didn't go to locker room.
She turned down the private corridor instead—keycard sliding through, door locking behind her with a sharp click.
Silence.
Then—
She ripped her wrist tape off and threw it across the room.
It hit the wall.
Hard.
"Enough," she snapped—to herself, to the empty space, to the feeling clawing at her chest.
Her bag followed. Then the towel.
A bottle shattered against the floor, water splashing across polished tiles.
Ling paced once, twice, fists clenched, breath uneven.
"What are you doing?" she hissed, dragging a hand through her hair. "This is beneath you."
She had never chased attention.
Never needed it.
And yet—
Her jaw tightened, eyes burning.
"Since when do you care if someone looks at you?"
She slammed her palm against the locker.
The sound echoed.
Her reflection in the mirror caught her off guard—eyes too dark, jaw too tense, control cracking around the edges.
"I don't want her attention," Ling said aloud, voice sharp. "I don't."
The lie tasted bitter.
She turned away, shoulders rising and falling, anger folding in on itself.
"She ignores everyone," Ling muttered. "You're not special."
And yet—
Her mind replayed it anyway.
Rhea walking past.
Rhea not looking.
Rhea choosing absence.
Ling dragged a hand down her face.
"You don't need anyone," she said, louder now. "You never have."
Her voice broke on the last word.
She clenched her fists, nails biting into skin.
"How did you let this happen?" she whispered furiously. "You don't beg. You don't chase."
She laughed once—short, humorless.
"And yet here you are. Wanting her attention like it's oxygen."
Ling leaned her forehead against the cool locker door, eyes squeezed shut.
Angry.
Not at Rhea.
At herself—for losing ground to someone who hadn't even looked her today.
Outside, laughter echoed faintly from the corridor.
Inside, Ling Kwong stood alone, furious, unraveling—
And hating herself for wanting the one thing she had never asked from anyone before.
Ling stormed out of the private corridor like a loaded weapon.
Students instinctively moved aside.
Her expression alone was enough to silence laughter, to stop conversations mid-word. Fury sat tight beneath her skin—not wild, not reckless, but compressed. Dangerous.
And then—
Rhea.
Walking down the hallway with Zifa, posture flawless, expression serene. Laughing softly at something Zifa said.
Not looking at Ling.
Not even a flicker.
That was it.
Ling crossed the distance in three strides.
Her hand shot out, fingers locking around Rhea's wrist.
Hard.
Rhea gasped—not in pain, but in surprise—as Ling yanked her sideways, spun her, and shoved her through the nearest door.
Ling's personal room.
The door slammed shut behind them.
Ling pinned Rhea to the wall instantly, forearm braced beside her head, body close enough that heat radiated between them. Her other hand stayed locked around Rhea's wrist, pulse hammering wildly beneath her grip.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Ling shouted.
Rhea's back hit the wall. Her breath knocked out for half a second—but her chin lifted immediately, eyes flashing.
"Let go," Rhea snapped.
Ling didn't.
"You don't get to ignore me like that," Ling hissed, voice raw, control fraying. "You don't get to walk past me like I don't exist."
Rhea laughed softly.
It wasn't mocking.
It was dismissive.
"That's rich," Rhea said. "Coming from someone who never looks twice at anyone."
Ling's jaw clenched. "Answer me."
Rhea's eyes flicked deliberately away—toward Ling's shoulder, the wall, anywhere but her face.
Ling saw red.
She slammed her palm harder against the wall beside Rhea's head.
"Why are you showing attitude?" Ling shouted. "You think you can provoke me and then pretend I'm invisible?"
Rhea finally looked at her.
Slowly.
Cold.
"Attitude?" Rhea repeated. "I'm just returning what you give, Ling Kwong."
Ling's breath came sharp. "I didn't ignore you."
"You ignored me first," Rhea said smoothly. "Today, yesterday—always when it suits you."
Ling leaned closer without meaning to, teeth clenched. "You walked into my class like I wasn't there."
Rhea's lips curved faintly. "You noticed."
The words hit.
Ling froze—just for a fraction of a second.
Rhea saw it.
Her pulse jumped beneath Ling's grip. She didn't pull away. Didn't soften.
"That's the problem, isn't it?" Rhea continued quietly. "You don't like when someone doesn't revolve around you."
Ling's grip tightened.
"You're playing a dangerous game," Ling warned, voice low now, lethal. "You don't know what you're provoking."
Rhea's eyes darkened—but she didn't look afraid.
"Neither do you," she whispered.
Their breaths mingled.
No apology.
No confession.
No retreat.
Just two forces locked against the wall—
one losing control,
the other smiling because she knew it.
Outside, the university buzzed on, unaware.
Inside the closed room, the first real fracture opened—
And Rhea Nior realized something terrifying and triumphant all at once:
Ling Kwong was already exactly where she wanted her.