The bathroom door was locked.
Rhea stood bent over the sink, both hands gripping the cold marble so tightly her knuckles had gone white. Water rushed endlessly from the tap, splashing against the basin, drowning the sound of her breathing — uneven, broken.
Her reflection stared back at her.
Hair plastered to her face.
Mascara streaked.
Skin flushed red from scrubbing too hard.
She turned the tap off suddenly.
Silence slammed into her ears.
A tear slid down her cheek.
Then another.
She laughed — short, bitter, hollow.
"How can I go out like this," she whispered to herself, voice cracking. "How?"
Her dress clung to her body, soaked through, fabric heavy and uncomfortable. Water dripped from the hem onto the tiled floor. She tugged at it angrily, as if pulling harder could erase what had just happened.
She grabbed paper towels, pressing them against her hair, her neck, her chest — but it was useless. The wetness stayed. The humiliation stayed.
Her breathing quickened.
"No," she muttered, shaking her head. "No, no, no."
She wiped her face roughly with the back of her hand, smearing tears instead of stopping them.
Her mind replayed everything — the laughter, the phones, the way people had looked at her like she was entertainment.
And worse —
The doll.
Ling.
Rhea slammed her palm against the mirror.
The sound echoed sharply in the empty bathroom.
"You wanted this," she said to her reflection, voice trembling with fury — at Ling, at Kane, at herself. "Didn't you? You wanted to feel nothing. You wanted to be strong."
Her lips quivered.
"Congratulations," she whispered. "This is strength."
Another tear fell. Then more — hot, angry tears that burned as they came.
She slid down against the wall slowly, dress pooling around her, knees drawn to her chest. Her wet clothes chilled her skin, but she didn't move. She hugged herself tightly, nails digging into her arms like an anchor.
"I hate you," she whispered — not knowing who she meant anymore.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
She ignored it.
Outside, footsteps passed. Laughter drifted faintly through the door.
Rhea pressed her forehead against her knees.
"I won't cry," she murmured stubbornly, even as tears soaked into the fabric. "I won't give her that."
But her shoulders shook anyway.
Water couldn't wash away what had been done.
And Rhea Nior — proud, sharp, unyielding — sat alone on a bathroom floor, soaked, furious, humiliated, realizing that this war had crossed a line where survival itself was starting to hurt.
And she still had to walk back out.
The bathroom door creaked open softly.
Rhea didn't look up.
She was still sitting on the floor, back against the wall, dress clinging to her skin, hair damp and tangled. Her face was tilted down, eyes fixed on the pattern of the tiles like they were the only solid thing left in the world.
Zifa slipped inside and locked the door behind her.
"I checked," Zifa said quietly.
Rhea's fingers tightened around the fabric at her knees.
"Our lockers," Zifa answered, already knowing the result even before she'd gone. "There's no extra shirt. Nothing."
Silence stretched.
Then Rhea laughed — a small, broken sound.
"Of course," she murmured. "Why would there be."
Zifa crouched in front of her, eyes scanning the wet dress, the red-rimmed eyes. Her jaw clenched.
"You can't go out like this," Zifa said firmly. "Your clothes are soaked. People will—"
"I know," Rhea cut in sharply, finally looking up. "You don't have to finish that sentence."
Zifa swallowed. "Then wait here. I'll find something. I don't care if I have to steal from the lost-and-found."
Rhea shook her head immediately. "No."
"Rhea—"
"No," Rhea repeated, stronger now. She pushed herself up slightly, wincing at the cold fabric against her skin. "You should go to class."
Zifa stared at her like she'd lost her mind. "Are you serious right now?"
"Yes."
Zifa stood abruptly. "I'm not leaving you here like this."
Rhea forced herself to her feet, unsteady but upright. She smoothed her wet dress uselessly, chin lifting — pride reasserting itself like armor.
"You will," Rhea said. "Because if you don't, they'll mark you too."
Zifa's breath hitched. "I don't care."
"I do," Rhea snapped.
Zifa fell silent.
Rhea's voice softened then, exhaustion bleeding through the anger. "Please. Just… go. Sit in class. Act normal."
Zifa shook her head slowly. "This isn't normal."
Rhea gave a bitter smile. "It is for her."
Zifa's hands curled into fists. "I hate this place."
"So do I," Rhea said quietly. "But hating it won't save you."
She stepped closer to Zifa, placing her hands on her shoulders — a rare, grounding touch.
"Go," Rhea said. "If they see you hovering around me, it'll get worse."
Zifa's eyes filled. "And you?"
Rhea looked away.
"I'll figure it out," she lied.
Zifa knew it was a lie.
She hesitated, torn, then nodded reluctantly. "I'll be back. I promise. I'll find something."
Rhea met her eyes again. "Don't rush. Don't get caught."
Zifa stepped back toward the door, then paused.
"Rhea," she said softly.
"Yes?"
"You don't deserve this."
Rhea didn't answer.
Zifa left.
The door clicked shut.
Rhea stood alone again, the bathroom suddenly feeling colder, larger, emptier.
She hugged herself instinctively, teeth chattering slightly — from cold, from fury, from something dangerously close to despair.
"Figure it out," she whispered to herself again.
But as she stared at her reflection — soaked, humiliated, marked — she realized with a sick twist in her chest:
Some problems couldn't be hidden.
Some damage couldn't be dried away.
And she still had to face the world outside that door.