Ling called once.
Disconnected.
Her jaw tightened. She called again.
Disconnected.
That was enough.
She didn't think anymore—she moved.
The café Rhea was in was louder than Ling liked. Too bright. Too open. Too many people watching things that weren't theirs to watch.
Ling pushed the door open.
Rhea was sitting across from Roin, coffee untouched, posture stiff. She looked up first—eyes widening just a fraction before hardening.
Roin followed her gaze. His lips curved, slow and unpleasant.
Ling walked straight to the table.
"I want to talk to you," Ling said, voice low, clipped. "Now."
Rhea stood immediately. "I'm busy."
Ling laughed once—short, sharp. "Busy?"
Rhea's chin lifted. "Yes."
Ling's eyes flicked to Roin for half a second. That was all it took.
"Go," Ling said to him.
Roin leaned back in his chair, feigning calm. "We're having coffee. You don't own her time."
Ling stepped closer to the table, palms flat on the surface, leaning in just enough that everyone nearby went quiet.
"I wasn't talking to you," she said calmly. "Stand up."
Rhea snapped, "Ling—stop it."
Ling turned to her then. Really looked at her.
"You disconnected my call," Ling said. "Twice."
"So?" Rhea shot back. "I don't have to pick every time you decide to demand something."
Ling's control cracked audibly. "I wasn't demanding. I was asking."
Rhea laughed, sharp and defensive. "You don't know how to ask."
That hit.
Ling straightened slowly. "Get up. We're talking."
Rhea crossed her arms. "I said no."
People were openly staring now. Zifa wasn't here to defuse it. No squad. No buffer.
Just them.
Roin stood suddenly. "Hey, maybe you should back off—"
Ling turned on him like a blade. "Stay. Away."
Something in her voice made him hesitate.
Rhea slammed. "Don't talk to him like that!"
Ling's eyes snapped back to Rhea. "Then don't put him between us."
Rhea stepped forward, closing the space herself now, anger burning. "You don't get to decide where I go or who I sit with."
Ling's voice dropped, dangerous and tight. "And you don't get to pretend you didn't do this on purpose."
Rhea scoffed. "Oh, so now I'm manipulating you?"
"Yes," Ling said instantly. "You are."
Silence fell hard.
Rhea's eyes glistened, fury masking hurt. "You left this morning like I didn't matter."
Ling flinched—just barely. "I left because you told me to."
"You left because it was easier," Rhea shot back. "Like always."
Ling stepped closer again, crowd be damned. "I came here because you matter. Because I don't trust him. Because you won't look at me and I can't breathe when you do that."
Rhea swallowed. "That's not my problem."
Ling's hands curled into fists at her sides. "It is when you make it one."
Roin cleared his throat, trying again. "Rhea, we can go—"
Ling cut him off without looking. "Say one more word and I'll make sure you never sit at a table with her again."
Rhea grabbed Ling's wrist hard. "Don't threaten him!"
Ling looked down at Rhea's hand on her wrist.
Then back up.
"Don't protect him from me," Ling said quietly. "Protect yourself from him."
Rhea released her abruptly, breathing hard. "You don't trust me."
Ling answered without hesitation. "I trust you. I don't trust who you forgive."
Rhea stepped back, shaking. "I need air."
She turned to leave.
Ling caught her elbow—not rough, but firm. "Rhea. Don't walk away."
Rhea yanked her arm free. "Watch me."
She walked out.
The door swung shut behind her.
Ling stood there, chest rising fast, eyes dark, every muscle screaming after her—and for the first time in a long while, she didn't follow.
Roin exhaled slowly, victorious.
Ling turned to him.
Whatever was in her eyes wiped the smile clean off his face.
"This isn't over," she said. "For either of you."
Then she turned and left—control shattered, obsession burning, the space between her and Rhea louder than any crowd.
She took the stairs two at a time, jaw locked, chest tight, until the private room door slammed shut behind her. Silence hit—thick, padded, dangerous.
She paced once. Twice.
Then she stopped, pulled out her phone, and called Zifa.
Zifa picked up on the second ring. "If this is about the café—"
"Send her to me," Ling said.
No greeting. No explanation.
Zifa paused. "Ling—"
"With any excuse," Ling cut in, voice flat but vibrating underneath. "Tell her I need notes. Tell her the dean asked. Lie. I don't care."
Another pause. Longer this time.
Zifa sighed. "You're losing it."
Ling closed her eyes, pressing her thumb hard into her palm like pain could keep her anchored. "I already have. Help me fix it."
Zifa softened—just a fraction. "She's angry."
"So am I," Ling replied. "That's why I need her here. Now. Before I say something worse in public."
Zifa exhaled. "Give me five minutes."
The call ended.
Ling dropped onto the edge of the desk chair, elbows on her knees, hands laced together like restraint was something she could physically hold.
She stared at the door.
Every sound outside scraped her nerves raw—footsteps, laughter, the echo of lives moving forward while she stayed stuck in one moment.
Her phone buzzed.
Zifa:She's coming. I told her you were injured and refusing to leave the room.
Ling huffed a humorless breath. "Figures."
She stood, straightened her jacket, wiped a hand over her face. The anger was still there—hot, volatile—but beneath it was something worse.
Fear.
Footsteps approached.
Ling didn't move.
The door handle turned.
And whatever came next—fight or fracture—was already inevitable.