The door to Ling's personal changing room slammed shut behind them.
Silence.
Ling set Rhea down on the couch carefully—too carefully for someone pretending she wasn't shaken. She grabbed a bottle of water, twisted the cap open with a sharp flick, and pressed it into Rhea's hands.
"Drink."
Rhea hesitated.
Ling's fingers closed over hers, steadying the bottle. "Now."
Rhea drank.
Small sips at first. Then more. Her breathing slowly evened out.
Ling crouched in front of her, eyes scanning—wrists, shoulders, waist, legs—methodical, controlled, terrifyingly focused.
"You're fine?" Ling asked. "Anywhere hurt?"
Rhea straightened immediately, irritation snapping back into place like armor.
"I said I'm fine," she replied coldly. "You can stop acting like I'm—"
Ling's hands were already there.
One wrapped around Rhea's wrist, checking.
The other slid to her ankle, fingers firm, professional.
Rhea stiffened. "Don't."
Ling looked up.
Her eyes were still red.
That was the problem.
"You don't get to decide that alone," Ling said quietly. "Not after that."
Rhea yanked her leg back, standing abruptly. "I didn't ask you to play hero."
The words were sharp.
Deliberate.
Calculated.
Ling rose too—slowly, towering, presence filling the room.
"I know," Ling said. "You didn't ask for anything today."
Her gaze dropped to Rhea's hands—still trembling, no matter how hard she tried to hide it.
"Sit," Ling ordered again.
Rhea crossed her arms. "No."
Ling stepped closer.
Not touching.
Worse.
"You were about to fall," Ling said, voice low, tight. "You don't get to dismiss that like it was nothing."
Rhea lifted her chin, eyes cool. "It was nothing."
A lie.
Ling saw it.
Heard it.
Felt it.
"Don't do that," Ling warned.
"Do what?" Rhea snapped. "Act unaffected? You prefer it when I'm scared?"
Ling's jaw clenched.
"This isn't a game," Ling said.
Rhea's lips curved into a faint, infuriating smile as she remembered her vow that morning. Kane's tense face. The promise whispered into sleep.
"Everything is a game to someone like you," Rhea said lightly. "You just don't like losing control."
Ling's breath caught.
Rhea stepped back, deliberately creating distance.
"I'm fine," she repeated, colder now. "You can let go."
Ling didn't move.
Her hands stayed at her sides, fingers flexing once like she was restraining something violent.
"Get checked," Ling said finally. "By the medic."
Rhea slung her bag over her shoulder. "No."
Their eyes locked.
Control met defiance.
Rhea turned for the door, pausing just long enough to deliver the blade.
"Thanks for the drama," she said coolly. "You should work on that temper."
She walked out.
The door closed.
Ling stood alone in the changing room, water bottle still clutched in her hand, chest tight, pulse roaring.
She had held Rhea while she was falling.
She had carried her like something precious.
And now—
She had been dismissed like it meant nothing.
Ling closed her eyes once.
Just once.
Because she didn't know what terrified her more—
That Rhea almost died…
Or that Rhea was already learning exactly how to hurt her without ever laying a hand.
Ling didn't cool down.
She redirected.
Her steps were sharp as she cut across the court corridor toward the auxiliary wing—where Rawen and Jian were already waiting.
They straightened the moment she arrived.
Ling's jaw locked.
"Where."
"Music room corridor. Third floor," Rawen replied.
Ling turned before the sentence ended.
The door slammed open.
Mira barely had time to look up before Ling was on her.
Ling's hand clamped around Mira's wrist—hard, unyielding—and dragged her inside, kicking the door shut with her heel.
"Ling—!" Mira gasped.
Ling shoved her back against the wall.
The sound echoed.
Ling's palm rose—not to strike—but to close around Mira's throat, fingers pressing just enough to make the message unmistakable.
Choking.
Claiming.
Warning.
"You don't get to touch her," Ling said, voice low, shaking with fury she was barely holding in place. "You don't get to decide who lives and who falls."
Mira clawed at Ling's wrist, tears streaming—but then she laughed.
It was broken. Hysterical. Ugly.
"You're too late," Mira choked out through tears. "She won't be yours. Never."
Ling's grip tightened a fraction.
"She'll never choose you," Mira continued, eyes wild. "And aunt will never accept her. She already considers me her daughter-in-law."
Ling's eyes went cold.
Not jealous.
Dangerous.
"You pushed her," Ling said. "She almost died."
Mira sobbed—and laughed again. "And you almost lost her," she whispered. "That's the best part."
Ling leaned in, her forehead almost touching Mira's.
"If anything like this ever happens again," Ling said quietly, "you won't see me coming."
She released her.
Mira collapsed against the wall, coughing, shaking, mascara streaking down her face.
Ling straightened her blazer like nothing had happened.
"Stay away from her," Ling said. "And stay away from me."
She turned and walked out.
Outside, Rawen and Jian waited.
Ling didn't slow.
"Make sure she doesn't come within ten meters of Rhea Nior," Ling said. "Ever."
Jian nodded. "And Aunt?"
Ling paused for half a second.
"She's my mother," Ling said evenly. "I'll handle her."
She walked away, spine straight, control reassembled.
But inside—
Mira's words echoed like poison:
She won't be yours.
Aunt will never accept her.
Ling's hand curled slowly into a fist.
She turned back.
She grabbed Mira's wrist again—harder this time, fingers iron around bone.
"Today," Ling said coldly, eyes blazing, "I'll end this topic too."
She shoved her into the car.
The door slammed so hard the vehicle shook.
Mira gasped. "Ling—"
"Quiet," Ling said, voice cut sharp as glass.
The engine roared to life.
Ling drove like she was outrunning something inside her—hands white-knuckled on the wheel, jaw clenched so tight it ached. Mira sat frozen in the passenger seat, wrist still burning from Ling's grip, fear finally sinking deep.
This was finality.