The apartment lights stayed off even after midnight.
Ling entered without turning them on, closing the door behind her with a slow, deliberate motion. The lock clicked once. Then again. Habit. Control. The city hummed faintly beyond the glass walls—traffic, distant sirens, life continuing without permission.
She dropped her keys onto the counter. They scattered out of alignment. She didn't fix them.
Her jacket came off next. Tossed onto a chair she never sat in. Shoes kicked aside with her heel. The precision she carried all day peeled away piece by piece as she crossed the dark space barefoot.
The bottle was already where she'd left it.
She poured without measuring. The glass filled. Overflowed slightly. She drank anyway, the burn sharp enough to keep her present. Another glass waited nearby, empty and accusing.
Ling sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on her knees, shoulders hunched forward like she was bracing for impact that never came.
Her fingers closed around the chain.
Rhea's chain.
The metal was cold. Familiar. She wrapped it around her fist and pulled tight until it bit into her skin. The pressure grounded her more than the alcohol ever could.
"Stupid," she muttered to the empty room.
She swallowed again. The glass clinked softly as she set it down.
Her gaze lifted to the window, to the reflection staring back at her. Dark eyes. Unreadable. Untouched by sleep.
"I did everything right," she said aloud.
The room didn't respond.
She laughed once—short, bitter. "Liar."
Memory slipped in without warning. Not scenes. Not images. Just weight. Heat at her side that wasn't there anymore. A name sitting on her tongue like a wound.
"Rhea."
The sound broke differently each time she said it.
Sometimes it came out soft. Almost careful.
Sometimes sharp enough to cut.
She dragged a hand down her face, breath unsteady now. Tears welled without ceremony, spilling over as if her body had stopped asking permission. They dropped onto her knuckles, onto the chain, onto skin already red and dented from the metal.
"I hate you," Ling whispered, voice rough.
Her grip tightened.
"No," she corrected, swallowing hard. "I hate me."
She leaned forward until her forehead rested against her clenched fist. Her shoulders trembled—not violently, not dramatically. Just enough to show the cracks she refused to acknowledge in daylight.
The glass tipped over at her feet. Alcohol spread across the floor, dark and wasted.
Ling didn't move to clean it.
She stayed there until the shaking passed, until the ache settled into something dull and survivable. Then she straightened slowly, wiping her face with the back of her hand like it offended her to be seen that way—even alone.
The chain loosened. She let it fall into her palm, then onto the bedside table, arranging it carefully. Precisely.
Control returned in pieces.
She lay back on the bed fully clothed, one arm draped over her eyes, breathing shallow, waiting for sleep that never came.
Outside, the city kept moving.
Inside, Ling stared into the dark.
Every night.
Morning arrived without permission.
Ling woke to vibration against her ribs, the phone trapped between mattress and body. Her eyes opened instantly. No confusion. No softness. Habit snapped her awake faster than alarms ever had.
The screen lit up.
Missed calls.
One. Two. Five. Eight.
Her breath stalled.
Family never called like that.
She sat up, sheets falling to her waist, hair disordered in a way no one ever saw. The apartment was pale with early light, empty bottles catching the sun like evidence she hadn't bothered to hide.
Her thumb hovered.
Then she called back.
It rang once.
"Ling." Victor's voice came through immediately. No greeting. No control.
Her spine went rigid. "What happened?"
A pause. Too long.
"Dadi collapsed last night," Victor said. "Heart attack."
The word landed wrong. Heavy. Final.
Ling swung her legs off the bed, feet hitting the floor hard. "What?"
"I - I'm coming."
Another pause. She could hear movement on his end. Voices. Machines. Hospital noise bleeding through the line.
"Can you get yourself free," Victor said carefully, "to check out that your family exists too?"
Her throat tightened violently.
"Sorry," she said. One syllable. Barely there.
The call ended.
Ling stared at the phone like it had betrayed her. Her hands shook once. Just once. Then her composure cracked.
Tears spilled without warning, hot and fast, blurring the room. She dragged a hand across her face angrily, breath sharp, uneven.
"Damn it," she whispered.
She stood abruptly, moving through the apartment like muscle memory took over. Jacket grabbed. Shoes pulled on without sitting. Bottle kicked aside and shattered against the wall.
She didn't look at it.
She walked out into the hallway and snapped her fingers once.
"Jet," she said to the servant stationed outside, voice rough. "Get the jet ready. We are going."
The servant straightened instantly. "Yes, Miss Kwong."
Ling moved past him, phone already back in her hand. More missed calls flooded the screen now. Names she hadn't answered in months.
Dadi.
Her chest clenched so hard she had to stop walking.
"No," she breathed. "You don't get to leave."
The elevator doors closed. Her reflection stared back at her—eyes red, jaw tight, shoulders squared like armor snapping into place.
She wiped her face again. Harder this time. The tears stopped. Not because the pain faded—but because she forced it to.
Control returned. Ruthless. Necessary.
By the time the elevator opened, Ling Kwong was upright, composed, terrifyingly calm.
But her fingers trembled as she clenched them at her sides.
Family existed.
And it was calling her back.