The air felt heavy.
Then the doors at the front opened.
Ling Kwong walked in.
Silence fell so fast it was violent.
She didn't rush. She didn't glare wildly. She walked with slow, deliberate steps, eyes scanning the room like she was counting sins.
She stopped center stage.
No mic. She didn't need one.
"Sit," she said calmly.
Everyone obeyed instantly.
Ling let the silence stretch. One second. Two. Ten.
Then she smiled.
Not warmth. Not humor.
Warning.
"Interesting," she said softly, "how brave people become when they think I'm not watching."
No one breathed.
Ling's gaze moved across the rows. "Today, something happened on my campus."
A few heads lowered.
"A girl walked through these halls soaked, exposed, and alone," Ling continued, voice steady. "And instead of looking away, some of you chose to film."
Her smile vanished.
"That," she said coldly, "was a mistake."
A student in the third row started shaking.
Ling tilted her head. "Do you know what humiliation actually is?"
She stepped forward one pace.
"It's not jokes. It's not pranks. It's not laughing when you think power is on your side."
Another step.
"Humiliation is when you realize too late that the person you mocked owns your future."
A phone clattered to the floor somewhere.
Ling's eyes snapped to the sound.
"Stand," she said, pointing.
The student stood, pale.
Ling didn't even look angry — that was worse.
"Anyone who recorded," she said calmly, "you have ten seconds to step forward."
Murmurs erupted. Panic spread.
"No?" Ling asked softly.
She nodded once to Jian.
Jian raised his tablet. "We already have access logs."
Ling exhaled through her nose, almost bored. "So you chose the hard way."
She leaned against the podium, crossing her arms.
"Here's how this works," she continued. "From today, every name on that list loses internships. Scholarships. Recommendations."
She paused.
"And if I find one clip still exists," Ling added, eyes darkening, "I'll make sure your families remember my name."
A girl burst into tears.
Ling didn't react.
"You thought today was entertainment," she said. "You were wrong. Today was a warning."
She straightened, voice dropping lower.
"And understand this clearly — what happened to her will never happen again."
Her jaw tightened just slightly at that word.
Her.
"But what happens to you," Ling finished, "starts now."
Rowen watched her, uneasy. Jian swallowed hard.
No one spoke.
Because everyone understood one thing now:
Ling Kwong wasn't playing revenge games anymore.
She was enforcing ownership.
She went and stood at the center aisle, visible to all, posture straight, expression carved from stone.
Rowen instinctively stepped aside. Jian swallowed.
Ling raised her hand once.
Silence fell instantly.
"I'm adding something," she said, voice calm but absolute.
She scanned the room slowly, deliberately, making sure every single face was looking at her.
"No doll," Ling said flatly. "No rules. No games."
A ripple of confusion passed through the students.
She continued, tone sharpening.
"No one is allowed to touch her. No pranks. No whispers. No 'accidents'. No humiliation disguised as fun."
Her jaw tightened.
"Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever."
Someone in the back whispered, "Why—"
Ling's head snapped toward the sound.
The whisper died.
Ling took a step forward.
"Because," she said coldly, "Rhea Nior is mine."
The words hit the room like a loaded weapon.
Not romantic.
Not gentle.
Territorial.
Ling didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to.
"Mine doesn't mean protected by kindness," she continued. "It means untouchable."
She let that sink in.
"Anyone who touches what belongs to Kwong," Ling said slowly, "will learn what it means to lose everything without warning."
Her eyes burned as she added, "This isn't a request. It's an order."
Rina, sitting near the front, tilted her head slightly. "Ling," she said lightly, "people will misunderstand."
Ling didn't even look at her.
"Let them," she replied.
She turned back to the students.
"You saw what happens when I'm angry," Ling said. "Now remember this part even better."
She pointed once, sharply, as if drawing a line in the air.
"Rhea Nior is off-limits."
A pause.
"Anyone who forgets," Ling finished, voice dropping to a near whisper, "will wish they had only been humiliated."
No one spoke.
No one moved.
No one dared breathe too loudly.
Ling turned and walked out for the final time.
Behind her, the auditorium stayed frozen — not because of fear alone, but because everyone understood the shift.
This wasn't revenge anymore.
This wasn't a game.
This was a declaration.
And somewhere else, completely unaware, Rhea sat alone believing she had lost Ling forever — while Ling Kwong had just claimed her in front of an entire world she was willing to burn.
The next day at the university felt wrong.
Too quiet.
Too careful.
Rhea stepped onto campus expecting whispers, laughter, eyes crawling over her skin the way they had before.
None came.
Students who saw her from a distance looked away immediately.
Conversations stopped mid-sentence when she passed. Groups parted without a word. Someone who was laughing a moment ago suddenly stared at the ground as if it were fascinating.
No phones lifted.
No smirks.
No comments.
Fear had replaced cruelty.
Rhea slowed her steps, confused. Her fingers tightened around her bag strap.
Why is no one looking?
She passed the basketball court — usually loud, alive. Today it was silent when she walked by. A few players straightened instinctively, eyes fixed anywhere but on her.
In the corridor, a girl bumped lightly into her shoulder by accident.
"I— I'm sorry," the girl blurted out immediately, panic in her eyes, bowing her head slightly before rushing away.
Rhea stood still.
That had never happened before.
She entered the classroom. Chairs scraped softly as people adjusted — not toward her, but away. The seat beside her stayed empty even though the room was full.
Zifa slipped in late and sat next to her, whispering, "Don't react."
Rhea leaned closer, barely moving her lips. "What's going on?"
Zifa didn't answer immediately. She looked around first, then lowered her voice further.
"Ling."
Rhea's jaw tightened.
"What about her," Rhea said flatly.
Zifa swallowed. "She made it very clear yesterday. No one touches you. No one even looks at you wrong."
Rhea's fingers trembled slightly under the desk.
"I didn't ask for that," she said quietly.
"I know," Zifa replied. "But asking doesn't matter where Ling Kwong is concerned."
The professor entered. The lecture began. Yet Rhea felt it — the invisible boundary around her, thick and suffocating.
She wasn't isolated anymore.
She was untouchable.
And that terrified her more than being humiliated.
Because protection from Ling never came without a cost.
During the break, Rhea walked down the hall. Students pressed themselves against walls to give her space. Someone whispered, "That's her," and another hissed, "Don't look."
Rhea stopped near a window, heart pounding.
She hugged her arms around herself, feeling smaller than ever.
She said she didn't care, Rhea thought bitterly.
Mom said she never even came.
Then why did the entire university look at her like she carried Ling Kwong's shadow wrapped around her?
Rhea closed her eyes for a second.
Across campus, on an upper balcony, Ling stood unseen, watching.
Her expression was ruthless. Controlled.
But when Rhea instinctively folded in on herself — shoulders curving inward, eyes down — Ling's jaw clenched hard.
"No one looks at what's mine," Ling murmured under her breath.
Not softly.
Not kindly.
Just certainly.