The café was crowded the way it always was after noon—polished wood tables, low jazz humming under conversation, students pretending not to stare at power when it walked past them.
Rhea sat with Zifa near the window.
Ling wasn't there yet.
Rhea stirred her drink slowly, eyes unfocused. Zifa was mid-sentence when the manager approached their table.
He didn't rush.
Didn't hesitate.
He smiled like this was routine.
"Miss," he said politely, "I'll need you to move to another table."
Rhea looked up. Calm. Cool. Already tired.
"Why?"
"This table is now reserved."
Zifa frowned. "It wasn't reserved when we sat."
The manager's smile thinned. "It is now."
Rhea's gaze flicked to the tiny sign placed just moments ago. Deliberate. Petty. Calculated.
"For whom?" Rhea asked.
The manager lowered his voice—just enough to sting.
"Students without… ongoing academic complications."
There it was.
Clean. Public. Surgical.
The café didn't go silent—but it listened.
Rhea's fingers tightened once around her cup. She didn't argue. Didn't explain. Didn't defend herself.
"Fine," she said.
She stood smoothly, picked up her bag, and moved to a back table without spilling a drop. Pride intact. Dignity untouched.
Zifa followed, furious.
"This is harassment," she whispered.
"I know," Rhea replied quietly, staring into her cup. Her jaw was set too hard.
She didn't look up again.
That was when Ling entered the café.
With Rina.
Ling stopped the second she stepped inside.
Rina spoke fast, low, urgent—her voice sharp with anger.
"They just made Rhea move. The manager. Said something about academic review."
Ling didn't ask for details.
Her face didn't change.
But something in her eyes went cold and precise.
She handed her helmet to Rina and walked straight to the counter.
The manager looked up—and went pale.
"Ah—mm—Ms Kwong," he stammered, straightening. "Good afternoon, mam—"
Ling didn't let him finish.
"What policy," she asked calmly, "allows you to humiliate a student in my university?"
"I—I can explain—ah—mam—"
Ling reached forward and grabbed his collar.
Firm. Certain. Undeniable.
The café froze.
She leaned in just enough for him to hear her.
"You will apologize," Ling said quietly. "Right now."
His hands shook. His breath stuttered.
"I—I'm sorry—very sorry—"
"Not to me."
She released him.
The manager stumbled back, turned, and hurried toward the back table.
Rhea was still looking down. She didn't see Ling. Didn't hear her voice. She only heard footsteps stop near her.
The manager cleared his throat, voice trembling.
"Miss Nior… I apologize for the misunderstanding. You're welcome to sit wherever you like."
Rhea looked up slowly.
Confused. Suspicious. Controlled.
She glanced around the café once—didn't see Ling. Ling had already turned away.
"Thank you," Rhea said flatly.
The manager nodded repeatedly and retreated.
Rhea sat back, unsettled. Zifa stared at the counter, eyes wide.
"What just happened?" Zifa whispered.
Rhea shook her head slightly. "I don't know."
Across the café, Ling was already walking out.
Rina caught up.
"She didn't even see you."
Ling didn't stop.
"Good."
Her jaw was clenched. Her hands steady.
This wasn't territory.
This was protection.
Afternoon-Basket Ball Ground
Crowds filled the stands, noise rising in waves—chants, whistles, phones already lifted. This was Ling Kwong's domain. Here, rules bent without breaking. Here, she never lost.
Ling walked onto the court as captain.
Black jersey. Number sharp against her back. Hair tied tight. Expression unreadable. Calm again. Controlled again. Whatever chaos lived inside her had been sealed behind discipline.
Her team followed instinctively.
Rina watched from the side, arms crossed. Mira sat stiffly in the front row. Jian and Rowen warmed up.
And then—
Ling saw her.
Rhea sat in the audience.
Not front row. Not hiding either. Center-left, posture straight, legs crossed, face composed. She wasn't there to provoke. She wasn't there to plead.
She was there because she refused to disappear.
Ling didn't react.
If anyone watched closely, they might have noticed the fraction of a second her dribble slowed. Might have noticed the way her jaw set harder.
The referee blew the whistle.
Warm-up drills began.
The commentator laughed lightly into the mic. "Looks like we've got a full house today."
That's when it happened.
A staff coordinator walked toward the scorer's table, leaned in, murmured something. The referee nodded.
Then his voice carried across the ground.
"Before we begin," he said, "there's a matter of conduct."
The crowd quieted, curious.
Ling's eyes lifted.
"Miss Rhea Nior," the referee continued, scanning the audience—and then pointing.
Every head turned.
Rhea felt it instantly. The heat. The focus. The sudden, brutal clarity of being singled out.
"Yes?" she called back, her voice steady.
"You've been reported for violating spectator protocol during previous matches," he said. "Disruptive presence. Influence on players."
A murmur rippled through the stands.
Influence.
Ling's fingers tightened around the ball.
"That's absurd," Rhea replied calmly. "I've never—"
"This isn't a discussion," the referee cut in. "You're requested to relocate to the upper stands. Or leave."
Public. Clean. Framed as neutrality.
Rhea didn't look at Ling.
Not once.
The audience watched—some confused, some entertained, some cruelly satisfied.
Zifa, sitting beside her, whispered angrily, "This is targeted."
"I know," Rhea said softly.
Ling stood still at center court, eyes locked on the referee now.
"Repeat that," she said calmly.
The referee hesitated. "Captain, this is an administrative—"
Ling took one step forward.
Then another.
Her voice didn't rise. It didn't shake.
"You do not point at people in my arena," she said. "And you do not remove spectators for existing."
"This is about neutrality," he tried.
Ling smiled.
It was not a kind smile.
"Neutrality doesn't single out one woman twice in one day," she said. "Neutrality doesn't mistake silence for disruption."
The crowd had gone dead quiet.
Ling turned—finally—toward the stands.
Not at Rhea.
At everyone.
"This match doesn't start," she said, "until she sits where she wants."
A pause.
Authority shifted.
The referee swallowed. "Captain, that's not—"
Ling's gaze snapped back. "Do you want this ground shut down?"
Silence.
Then, stiffly: "Miss Nior may remain seated."
Rhea didn't move for a second.
She hadn't looked at Ling. She wouldn't.
She simply sat back down.
Calm. Regal. Untouched.
The crowd erupted again—confused applause, whispers, phones flashing.
Ling turned away as if nothing had happened.
She signaled her team.
Game on.
As play resumed, Ling didn't look at Rhea.
But every shot she made was violent with control.
Every block was ruthless.
Every point landed like a warning.
This wasn't affection.
This wasn't defense.
This was a captain claiming her court—and making it very clear to anyone watching:
If you wanted Rhea Nior broken,
you were going to have to go through Ling Kwong first.