The lecture hall was full.
Too full. The kind of fullness that makes humiliation feel ceremonial.
Rhea sits straight-backed, chin lifted, pen steady between her fingers. She already knew what's coming. She always does now. Her body has learned the pattern before her mind accepts it.
Professor Halvorsen doesn't look at her when he speaks.
"Miss Nior," he says mildly, eyes still on the projector, "since you insist on attending late and unprepared so often, perhaps you'd like to explain this theorem."
A pause. Calculated.
The slide changes — advanced, layered, not in the syllabus yet.
A trap.
Murmurs ripple.
Rhea stands anyway. Slowly. Regal.
She answers.
Correct structure. One minor hesitation. Half a second too long.
Halvorsen smiles.
"That pause," he says, tilting his head, "is exactly why confidence without competence is dangerous."
A few students laugh. Not loudly. Safely.
Rhea feels it then — not shame.
Anger, sharp and contained. Her nails bite into her palm.
"Sit down," he adds gently. "You're wasting everyone's time."
The door opens.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
But the sound cuts the room in half.
Ling Kwong walks in.
No backpack. No books. Blazer buttoned. Hair tied back tight, severe. Her eyes don't scan the room — they lock on one thing only.
Rhea. Standing.
Ling stops walking.
The silence is absolute.
"Why," Ling asks calmly, "is she standing."
Halvorsen clears his throat. "Miss Kwong, I was asking questions."
Ling doesn't look at him.
"She's standing," Ling repeats, voice lower now, "in your class. Explain."
Halvorsen continued. "Miss Nior was unable to—"
Ling finally turns.
The look is not rage.
It's worse.
"You embarrassed her," Ling says. Not a question. "On purpose."
"That's an accusation," Halvorsen snaps.
Ling steps closer. One step. Then another.
"Sit," Ling says.
He laughs, incredulous. "What?"
Ling reaches out and pulls the chair from behind the desk, dragging it back with a screech that makes several students flinch.
"I said sit."
The room is frozen. Phones half-lifted. Breath held.
Halvorsen flushes. "You don't have that authority."
Ling leans down, hands flat on the desk, face inches from his.
"I own this wing," she says quietly. "I funded the chair you're sitting on. I approved your last three research grants."
Her eyes flick to Rhea for half a second — not comfort. Instruction.
Then back to him.
"Sit. Down."
He does.
Ling straightens and turns to the class.
"Miss Nior answered correctly," Ling says. "The pause was human. The humiliation was intentional."
She looks back at him.
"You're done teaching."
Security arrives within minutes. They don't touch Ling. They don't question her.
They escort Halvorsen out while he shouts about procedure, legality, boards.
Ling doesn't watch him leave.
She turns to Rhea.
Rhea is shaking. Not visibly. Internally. A storm under marble.
Ling steps close — too close for public space. Her voice drops.
"You don't get to be used."
Rhea swallows. "You didn't have to—"
Ling cuts her off, cold and final.
"Yes. I did."
She left saying "I will meet you at night".
Rhea is still on campus when the confirmation comes.
Not dramatic.
Not loud.
Just a quiet notification on her phone.
Administrative Review Pending.
She reads it once.
Then again.
Her thumb doesn't shake — but her chest tightens, slow and familiar, like a fist closing around her ribs.
So this is how Eliza does it, she thinks.
Not screaming. Not threats.
Just… erasing doors before you reach them.
Zifa asks something beside her. Rhea doesn't hear it.
Her mind is already elsewhere.
Ling.
Ling had looked at her this morning like the world was already burning.
Had said, quietly, without softness:
"I'll come by tonight."
Rhea had frowned then. "How?"
Ling hadn't answered. Just held her gaze too long.
Now Rhea understands the question better — and it terrifies her.
Because Rhea is not in some dorm.
She's at Nior Mansion.
And Ling Kwong doesn't cross thresholds she doesn't intend to conquer.
Rhea stares at the email again.
No red marks.
No accusations.
Just one sterile line that freezes her blood.
Administrative Review Pending.
No explanation.
No timeline.
Just suspension disguised as procedure.
Her jaw tightens.
Zifa is talking beside her, low and irritated about some assignment. Rhea nods automatically, eyes still on the screen, rereading the words like they might rearrange themselves.
They don't.
Her phone vibrates again.
Ling.
One message. No context.
I'll come by tonight.
Rhea exhales sharply through her nose.
Tonight?
Her fingers hover over the screen.
How?
Where?
Are you insane?
She types none of it.
Because the last time she asked Ling how, Ling had only looked at her — slow, assessing, like she was already standing somewhere Rhea couldn't see yet.
Rhea locks her phone.
Her spine straightens.
She doesn't get to panic. Not now.
Evening — Rhea's Room
Rhea is alone.
The room feels smaller than usual. Too quiet. Every sound too clear.
She throws her bag onto the bed harder than necessary and paces once, twice, fingers brushing the waist chain at her hip — grounding, habitual.
Her phone buzzes again.
A message.
Did something happen today?
Of course Ling knows.
Rhea types fast, sharp.
Nothing. Why?
Three dots appear. Disappear.
Then:
You're lying.
Rhea's lips press into a thin line.
I said nothing happened.
A pause.
Then:
Pack nothing.
That stops her.
Rhea sits on the edge of the bed slowly.
You said you'd come.
Another pause. Longer this time.
I will.
Rhea's fingers curl into the sheets.
Ling, I'm at my place.
Three dots. Still.
Then the reply comes — calm, unreadable.
I know where you are.
Rhea's chest tightens.
Not fear.
Something worse — inevitability.
She types one last message, controlled.
Don't do anything stupid.
The reply is immediate.
I don't do stupid. I do decided.
Rhea drops the phone onto the bed.
Her heartbeat is loud now.
Because Ling Kwong doesn't announce things she can't execute.
And she doesn't say tonight unless she's already counted the doors.
Rhea stands and goes to the window.
The sky is darkening.
Whatever Ling is about to do —
it's already in motion.