Morning arrived dressed as normalcy.
Ling entered the university gates with Rina flanking her like routine—like habit. Her posture was immaculate. Her expression unreadable. No smile, no edge, no softness. Calm in the way storms are calm before deciding a direction.
She didn't look for Rhea.
That was the first thing Rina noticed.
Usually, Ling's gaze found her without permission—across corridors, stairwells, reflections in glass. Today, her eyes stayed forward. Controlled. Sealed. As if whatever had cracked inside her the night before had been locked behind steel.
Rhea arrived minutes later from the opposite side.
She felt Ling before she saw her.
And she didn't look.
Because looking would cost her something she couldn't afford to lose this early in the day. Her spine stayed straight, chin lifted, walk unhurried. Regal. Untouched.
The first lecture hall was full.
Whispers moved faster than people. Everyone knew something had happened—something dramatic, something expensive, something personal. They didn't know what, but the air had teeth.
Rhea took her seat.
Front row.
The professor entered late. Dr. Halvorsen. Old. Impeccable. Known for fairness sharp enough to cut egos clean. He adjusted his glasses, scanned the room once, and began without greeting.
"Before we continue," he said mildly, "there's an administrative matter."
Rhea's pen paused.
"Rhea Nior."
The room shifted.
"Yes?" Her voice was even. No tremor. No question.
Dr. Halvorsen flipped a page on his tablet. "Your internal assessment submission for last week."
Rhea nodded. "Submitted three days early. Timestamped."
"Mm." He smiled faintly. "That's the issue."
A pause. Deliberate.
"The system shows irregularity."
Silence thickened.
"Irregularity how?" Rhea asked.
Polite. Calm. Public.
Dr. Halvorsen didn't look at her. "Plagiarism flags. Structural similarities. Enough to warrant academic review."
A breath went through the room like a blade.
Rhea didn't move.
"That's impossible," she said. Not defensive. Factual. "The work was original. I can provide drafts, references, version history."
"I'm sure you can," he replied smoothly. "Nevertheless, until review concludes, your score will be withheld."
Withheld.
Not failed. Not accused.
Worse.
A punishment disguised as procedure.
"And," he added, glancing up now, eyes cool, "you'll step down from seminar leadership until further notice."
That landed harder.
Whispers sparked. Heads turned. Someone behind her exhaled a quiet shit.
Rhea stood.
Slowly. Gracefully.
"If there is an allegation," she said, "I request it be formalized. I do not accept reputational suspension without charge."
The professor's smile sharpened by a fraction. "Miss Nior, academic integrity requires cooperation, not confrontation."
Rhea met his gaze fully now. Unblinking.
"And justice," she replied, "requires clarity."
A murmur. Approval from some. Fear from others.
Dr. Halvorsen closed his tablet. "Sit down. This is not a debate."
For half a second—only half—Rhea considered refusing.
Then she sat.
Because she understood the game.
Clean. Polite. Witnessed.
Humiliation without fingerprints.
Across the hall, Ling had gone still.
She hadn't looked at Rhea. Not once.
But something in her body shifted—an imperceptible tightening, like a predator registering imbalance in terrain it knew too well.
Rina felt it beside her.
Ling's jaw set. Her fingers curled once, slow, controlled, then relaxed.
Mira leaned closer, whispering, "Looks like someone's luck ran out."
Ling didn't answer.
Jian glanced toward Rhea, uneasy. Rowen swallowed.
Ling's eyes stayed on the board.
But the room had tilted.
Rhea walked out of that lecture with her head high.
She didn't cry.
She didn't shake.
But the word plagiarism followed her like a stain that hadn't touched her skin—yet.
And for the first time since stepping into this war, she understood one thing with perfect clarity:
This wasn't Kane's revenge anymore.
This was Eliza Kwong's territory.
And someone had just declared her fair game.
The second strike came before noon.
Rhea walked into the glass-walled faculty office with her file held neatly against her side. Her steps were measured. Her expression composed. Anyone watching would think she was walking into a formality, not a judgment.
Professor Aldric didn't ask her to sit.
He stood by the window, hands folded behind his back, watching the campus below like it belonged to him. Sunlight cut across the room, catching dust in the air, making everything look clean. Honest.
"Miss Nior," he said finally, turning with a mild smile. "Thank you for coming so promptly."
"Of course," Rhea replied. Calm. Respectful.
He gestured vaguely toward the chair. She remained standing anyway. Not rude. Just precise.
"I'll be brief," Aldric continued. "Given the ongoing review in your other course, the board felt it prudent to… rebalance expectations."
Rhea tilted her head slightly. "Rebalance?"
"Yes." He picked up a file—thin, intentionally so. "Your recommendation for the international symposium."
Her fingers tightened around her own file. Just once.
"I was shortlisted," she said. "Confirmed last week."
"You were," he agreed pleasantly. "However, the symposium requires candidates with unblemished academic standing. Temporarily, yours is… pending."
Pending.
That word again. Clean. Bloodless.
"So I'm being removed," Rhea said, evenly.
"Deferred," Aldric corrected. "You may reapply next year."
Next year didn't exist in Kane's timeline.
"I haven't been charged," Rhea said. "There is no verdict."
"And yet," Aldric replied, unbothered, "there is uncertainty. Institutions avoid uncertainty."
She met his eyes. "Is this standard protocol?"
He smiled wider. "Entirely."
A pause.
Then, almost kindly: "You understand how these things work, Miss Nior. Reputation precedes truth."
There it was.
Not an accusation. Not a threat.
A statement of fact.
Rhea nodded once. "Understood."
She turned to leave.
"Oh—and Rhea?" His voice softened deliberately. "I suggest you focus on your coursework for now. Ambition can wait."
She didn't respond.
She walked out with her spine straight, heels steady, dignity intact.
The glass walls ensured everyone saw her leave.
No raised voices.
No scene.
No mess.
Just another door quietly closed.
The restroom on the third floor was empty.
Rhea locked herself into the far stall, not because she was afraid of being heard—but because habits die hard. Control required boundaries.
She set her file down carefully on the closed toilet lid.
Then she leaned her forehead against the cold metal partition.
Just for a second.
Her breath stayed even. Counted. Controlled.
One.
Two.
Three.
Her phone buzzed.
A message from Kane, earlier that morning, unread:
Don't lose control.
Rhea didn't open it.
Her fingers curled into the fabric of her sleeve instead, nails pressing just enough to sting. Not enough to mark.
She didn't cry.
Her eyes burned—but she refused the release. Tears were a language Kane had trained out of her long ago. Tears were leverage. Tears were proof of weakness.
Instead, her jaw trembled.
Just once.
She inhaled too sharply, then corrected it. Slower. Deeper.
Her reflection in the cracked mirror above the sink looked the same—lip gloss perfect, hair smooth, eyes sharp. No one would guess anything had touched her.
But inside, something was fraying.
Not breaking.
Fraying.
She pressed her palm flat against her stomach, right above the waist chain—the place Ling's thumb had rested that night. Uninvited memory. Dangerous.
Her throat tightened.
Focus, she told herself.
This is what you came for.
Revenge had always been abstract. Strategic. Controlled.
This—this was personal.
She picked up her file again, smoothing the edge that didn't need smoothing. Straightened her shoulders. Lifted her chin.
By the time she unlocked the stall, the cracks were sealed.
She walked out composed, lethal, untouched.
But as she pushed open the restroom door, one thought followed her—quiet, traitorous, impossible to silence:
Ling would never let this happen.
And that thought hurt more than the professors ever could.