Rhea didn't make it to her bed.
The door closed behind her and something inside her finally slipped—not loudly, not violently—but enough.
She slid down against the door, back pressing into the wood, knees pulled to her chest. Her hands came up to her face too late. The first sob escaped anyway—sharp, broken, humiliating.
She cried.
Not pretty tears. Not silent ones.
Her shoulders shook. Her breath stuttered. The room blurred, lights smearing into nothing as the weight of the day—of Kane's words—crashed down.
Accept her.
Make her feel safe.
Then leave.
"She already loves me," Rhea whispered into the empty room, voice cracking. "She's already breaking."
Her chest hurt. Physically. Like something was tearing too wide inside her ribs.
She crawled to her bed, burying her face into the pillow, crying harder now—angry tears, terrified tears. Tears for the girl she was supposed to destroy. Tears for herself.
"I don't want to do this," she whispered. "I don't want to be her."
But Kane's voice lived in her bones. Survival had a price. It always had.
Rhea cried until her throat burned and her eyes ached, until exhaustion dragged her under—not peace, not relief—just silence thick enough to stop her thoughts.
Ling
Kwong-Mansion
At the Kwong mansion, lights were warm. Voices were gentle. Too gentle.
Rina talked animatedly, trying to pull Ling into laughter. Victor asked about practice, about classes, about everything except the thing that mattered. Eliza hovered—careful, controlled, watching Ling's face like a fault line.
Ling answered when required. Nodded when expected.
She didn't smile.
Eventually, the effort of pretending weighed more than silence.
"I'm tired," Ling said quietly.
Dadi looked up at her immediately. "Come."
Ling followed without question.
Dadi's room smelled like old books and jasmine oil. Familiar. Safe in a way nothing else was anymore. Dadi sat on the bed and patted her lap without a word.
Ling didn't hesitate.
She sank down, turning sideways, resting her head against Dadi's thighs like she had when she was a child too proud to admit fear.
For a long moment, she said nothing.
Dadi didn't rush her.
Then Ling's breath hitched.
"I'm scared," she said softly.
Dadi's hand moved through her hair, slow and steady. "Of what?"
Ling swallowed. Her voice shook despite her effort to keep it steady. "Of losing her."
Dadi didn't interrupt.
"She's still there," Ling continued. "Even when she's not in the room. Even when she looks at me like I'm nothing." Her fingers curled into the fabric of Dadi's shawl. "I don't chase people. I don't… feel like this."
Her breath broke.
"I'm strong everywhere else," she whispered. "But with her, I don't know where I end."
Dadi's thumb brushed away a tear Ling hadn't realized had fallen.
"And that frightens you."
"Yes." Ling nodded slightly, eyes wet now. "Because if she leaves—if she decides I'm not enough—I don't know what I'll become."
She laughed weakly, through tears. "I hate that she can still affect me. After everything."
Dadi leaned down, pressing a kiss to Ling's hair. "Love doesn't ask permission, Ling."
Ling closed her eyes.
"She doesn't even know how much power she has," Ling said, voice raw. "And I don't know how to take it back."
Dadi held her like she used to—firm, grounding, unshaken.
"You don't need to take it back," she said quietly. "You need to survive it."
Ling cried then.
Not loudly. Not broken.
But honestly.
Her tears soaked into Dadi's shawl as the night deepened around the mansion, two women in two different houses unraveling in parallel—both bound to the same truth neither was ready to say aloud:
Whatever came next would not be gentle.
And neither of them would walk away unchanged.
Next-Morning
The university buzzed the way it always did before a match—anticipation, noise, worship.
Ling walked through it untouched.
She didn't look for Rhea.
Didn't track her shadow.
Didn't acknowledge her existence.
Not in the corridor.
Not during warm-ups.
Not even when Rhea's presence pressed against her awareness like a bruise.
Ling's calm was surgical.
Rhea noticed immediately.
On the court, Ling was lethal.
Every movement precise. Every pass merciless. She played like nothing else existed. Like she hadn't ever begged for breath in front of Rhea. Like she hadn't shattered in Dadi's lap the night before.
The crowd roared.
Rhea watched without reacting.
But her jaw stayed tight the entire time.
Ling won. Of course she did.
She didn't look to the stands afterward. Didn't search for approval. Didn't acknowledge anyone except her team.
She turned and headed straight for her private room under the arena—the one no one entered without permission.
Except Rhea Nior had never been good at asking.
Ling had just shrugged off her jacket when the door slammed shut behind her.
She turned.
Rhea stood there, eyes sharp, breath controlled, anger held on a leash so tight it shook.
"Since when do you pretend I don't exist?" Rhea demanded.
Ling said nothing.
She reached for her water bottle.
That was a mistake.
Rhea crossed the room in three strides, grabbed Ling by the collar of her jersey, and pinned her back against the lockers.
Metal rang softly at the impact.
Ling froze—not because she was weak.
Because she hadn't expected this.
Rhea's forearm pressed against her throat—not choking, just claiming space. Her body was close. Heat immediate. Dangerous.
"Look at me," Rhea said.
Ling didn't.
Her gaze stayed level, detached, infuriatingly calm.
"Why are you acting like this?" Rhea snapped. "Yesterday you couldn't stop interfering. Today you can't even acknowledge me?"
Ling's jaw tightened.
"Move," she said quietly.
Rhea laughed once, sharp and disbelieving. "So you can ignore me again?"
Ling finally looked at her.
Not soft.
Not broken.
Controlled to the edge of cruelty.
"You don't get to question my behavior," Ling said. "Not anymore."
Rhea's grip faltered—just a fraction.
"What does that mean?" she asked.
Ling leaned forward slightly, forcing Rhea to feel how close they already were. Her voice stayed low. Even.
"It means I learned," Ling said. "That protecting you costs me more than it costs you."
Rhea's breath hitched despite herself. "I didn't ask you to—"
"No," Ling cut in. "You didn't ask. You never do."
Silence stretched tight between them.
Rhea's eyes searched Ling's face, looking for cracks. For pain. For proof she still mattered.
She found nothing.
That scared her more than anger ever could.
"You don't get to switch this off," Rhea said, voice dropping. "Not after everything."
Ling's lips curved—not a smile.
"You're right," she said. "I don't."
She lifted her hands—not to touch Rhea, but to remove her arm from her throat with precise, controlled strength. No struggle. No drama.
Then she stepped past her.
"But I do get to decide," Ling added coldly, "when you no longer get access to me."
Rhea turned sharply. "Ling—"
Ling paused at the door.
She didn't turn around.
"Go back to your seat in the audience," she said. "That's where you're safest."
The door opened.
Then closed.
Rhea stood alone in the private room, heart racing—not with victory, not with control—
—but with the terrifying realization that for the first time since this war began,
Ling Kwong wasn't chasing her anymore.
And that meant Rhea was the one losing ground.