The elevator chimed once.
That was all the warning the staff received.
Shoes scraped against marble. Someone hissed, "She's here." Another voice followed, sharper—"Miss Kwong is coming."
The apartment shifted into motion.
Curtains were pulled straighter. A glass that had been left on the counter vanished. A jacket was lifted from a chair and folded with nervous precision. No one spoke above a whisper now.
Ling Kwongdid not like noise.
The elevator doors slid open.
She stepped out without hesitation, black coat falling cleanly along her frame, glasses catching the light for a second before hiding her eyes again. Her hair was tied back tight enough to look deliberate, painful even. Nothing about her moved unnecessarily.
"Good evening, Miss Kwong," the house manager said, bowing slightly.
Ling didn't slow.
Her heels struck the floor in an even rhythm—measured, exact. She shrugged out of her coat mid-stride. Someone rushed forward to take it and nearly fumbled. Ling stopped walking.
The sound echoed.
Silence followed.
The staff member froze, coat clutched like evidence.
Ling turned her head just enough to look at him. Not annoyed. Not angry.
Worse.
"You have ten seconds," she said calmly, "to stop shaking."
The man swallowed hard. His hands steadied—barely.
Ling handed over the coat and continued walking as if nothing had happened.
Behind her, no one breathed properly until she was gone.
Inside the apartment, the lights adjusted automatically. Ling removed her glasses, set them on the console in the exact center, then checked her watch.
"Dinner," she said.
"Yes, Miss Kwong," came the chorus, too fast, too eager.
She walked toward the window, overlooking a city that never slept and never asked questions. Her reflection stared back—sharp jaw, still eyes, a woman carved out of discipline.
A servant approached carefully. "Miss Kwong… the meeting ran late. Would you like tea instead?"
Ling didn't turn.
"No," she said. "I want what I asked for."
The servant hesitated. It was barely a pause, but Ling caught it.
Her reflection smiled.
"Did I stutter?"
"No, Miss Kwong."
The servant fled.
Ling stood alone now, hands clasped behind her back. The room smelled like polish and fear. Everything was perfect. Nothing was warm.
The drink was placed on the table. She picked it up without looking at who brought it, took one sip, then another.
The glass cracked.
Not shattered—just a thin, ugly fracture crawling along the side.
Ling stared at it for a moment. Then she set it down gently.
"Replace this," she said.
"Yes, Miss Kwong."
When the staff finally withdrew, the apartment went silent again. The kind of silence that didn't relax you—it watched.
Ling sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on her knees. She loosened her tie slowly, methodically. The control never slipped in public. It waited.
Her phone buzzed on the table.
She didn't touch it.
Another vibration.
Still nothing.
The city lights flickered outside. Somewhere far away, something human laughed.
Ling finally leaned back, eyes closing for half a second longer than necessary.
The glass on the table finished cracking on its own.
She opened her eyes.
"Four months," she said quietly.
No explanation. No name.
The apartment stayed silent.
And everyone who worked for her knew one thing with absolute certainty:
Whatever had broken Ling Kwong—
had survived.
"Keep your voice down."
"I am."
"You're not."
The new servant stiffened as the elevator indicator slid past their floor. The older woman guiding her pressed two fingers into her arm, hard enough to hurt.
"Rule one," she whispered. "When Miss Kwong is in the building, you don't exist unless she asks you to."
The new servant nodded quickly.
They stood near the service corridor, hidden from the main hallway. The lights hummed overhead. Somewhere above them, a door closed—clean, precise.
The older servant swallowed.
"She doesn't like to be seen at night," she said. "If she's awake and you're in her line of sight, pray she doesn't notice you."
"Why?" the girl asked.
The older servant exhaled through her nose. "Because if she does, she'll remember you."
The girl frowned. "Is she… that bad?"
A bitter smile flickered across the woman's face.
"Two months ago, a man raised his voice at her in this building. Someone important." She leaned closer. "Miss Kwong didn't shout. Didn't threaten."
The elevator chimed again, closer now.
"She beat him," the woman said softly. "With her hands. Then with whatever was within reach. Vase. Lamp. Glass table."
The girl's eyes widened.
"She stopped when the table broke," the woman continued. "Not because he was unconscious. Because she doesn't like broken furniture."
The girl's mouth opened, then closed.
"Another thing," the older servant added. "If you hear something fall at night—don't look. Don't check. Don't offer help. Whatever happens, never."
"What if she's hurt?"
"She won't be."
The hallway lights dimmed slightly as someone passed through the private corridor. Footsteps echoed once. Then stopped.
Every voice died instantly.
They waited.
Seconds stretched. A door opened somewhere. Closed again.
Only then did the older servant breathe out.
"She doesn't sleep much," she said. "And when she drinks, you stay farther away than usual."
"What about her family?" the girl asked, hesitant now.
The older servant hesitated too. Just a fraction.
"They call," she said. "She answers sometimes. Rarely." Her fingers tightened around the clipboard in her hands. "Never more than five minutes. Even for her parents."
"Does she—"
"No," the woman cut in. "She doesn't talk. She listens. Then she ends the call."
The girl hugged her arms around herself. "Was she always like this?"
The older servant looked down the corridor, where the light still hadn't fully returned.
"Maybe," she said. "Or maybe not."
The elevator chimed again—this time below them.
"Positions," the woman whispered.
They separated immediately, faces neutral, movements perfect.
As they walked away, the older servant added without looking back:
"If Miss Kwong ever asks you a personal question—don't answer it."
"Why?"
"Because that means she's already noticed you."
The lights steadied.
Above them, Ling Kwong's apartment remained silent.
And no one in the building believed silence meant peace anymore.