Ling stopped at the door.
Her hand rested on the frame, fingers relaxed, posture casual—too casual for the way the room snapped back into attention instantly.
The class stood frozen, half-risen from their seats, unsure whether they were dismissed or already in trouble again.
Ling spoke without looking back.
"Class Representative."
"Yes, ma'am," the girl answered immediately, voice tight.
Ling turned slowly now, eyes scanning the room once more—not searching, not questioning. Measuring.
"Anyone absent without a formal application," Ling said calmly, "send their names to my office."
A ripple of unease passed through the students.
"I'll deal with them personally."
The CR swallowed hard and nodded. "Yes, ma'am."
Ling adjusted her glasses, her tone unchanged. "That includes repeat absences."
The CR hesitated for a second. "Ma'am… even if—"
Ling's gaze snapped to her.
The girl froze mid-sentence.
"Even if?" Ling repeated softly.
The CR shook her head quickly. "No, ma'am. I understand."
"You should," Ling replied. "This is a medical university. People's lives will one day depend on your discipline. If you cannot respect time now, you will not be trusted with it later."
No one dared breathe.
Ling let the silence sit—long enough to sink into bone.
Then she nodded once. "Dismissed."
The class stood instantly. "Thank you, ma'am."
Ling walked out.
In the corridor, whispers erupted the second she disappeared around the corner.
"She's serious."
"Did you hear that? Her office."
"Whoever's absent is finished."
A boy leaned toward the CR. "Who all are absent?"
The CR glanced down at her register again, fingers tightening around the pen. "Three names."
Another student whispered, "Any big ones?"
The CR hesitated.
Then, quietly, "Rhea Nior."
A few heads turned.
"That quiet transfer?"
"The one who sits alone?"
"She hasn't come in days."
Someone muttered, "She's dead."
The CR snapped her book shut. "Don't say stupid things."
But unease lingered.
Meanwhile, Ling walked toward her office with controlled strides.
Her expression was neutral again. Perfect.
Anyone watching would have thought nothing had happened.
But her mind was not quiet.
Rhea Nior.
She replayed the sound of the name—not the meaning. The pronunciation. The way it had landed in the room.
"It's a coincidence," she told herself firmly.
She had dealt with coincidences her entire life.
She reached her office, opened the door, and stepped inside.
The space was immaculate. Dark wood. Clean lines. No warmth.
She set her files down and removed her glasses, pressing her fingers briefly against the bridge of her nose.
Three days absent.
Her jaw tightened.
"No," she said aloud, sharply. "Enough."
She put her glasses back on and straightened.
A knock came at the door.
"Enter."
The CR stepped in hesitantly, holding the attendance sheet with both hands like it might explode.
"Ma'am… the list."
Ling took the paper without looking at her.
"Leave," she said.
The CR didn't argue.
The door closed softly.
Ling looked down at the page.
Three names.
Her eyes moved mechanically over the first.
Then the second.
Then—
She stopped.
Her fingers tightened imperceptibly around the paper.
Rhea Nior.
There it was again.
Ink on paper.
Undeniable.
Ling stared at the name for a long moment.
Her heartbeat remained steady. Controlled.
Her thoughts were not.
"She shouldn't be here," Ling murmured to the empty room.
But the paper did not change.
Ling folded the sheet once, precisely, and placed it in a drawer.
"Deal with it later," she told herself.
She stood, squared her shoulders, and turned back to her work.
Outside, the university continued to move in obedient silence.
Inside Ling Kwong's office, a name waited—
patient, dangerous, and very much real.
The lecture hall buzzed quietly before the dean even entered.
Students sat slouched for once, notebooks half-closed, minds already drifting. The first semester had drained everyone. Sleepless nights, pressure, competition—medicine did not forgive weakness.
Rhea wasn't there.
Her seat—two rows from the front, always the same—remained empty for the third consecutive day.
Some noticed.
Most didn't care.
The dean cleared his throat at the podium.
"Attention, everyone."
The chatter died instantly.
"As you all know," the dean continued, voice formal but carrying a hint of relief, "the first semester officially concluded."
For a second, there was silence.
Then—
A cheer broke out.
Laughter. Applause. Whistles.
Students leaned toward each other excitedly.
"Finally."
"I thought this day would never come."
"I survived anatomy. Barely."
The dean raised a hand. "Yes, yes. Control yourselves."
A few chuckles followed.
"To mark the end of the semester," he said, "the university will be hosting an official evening party for students."
The hall erupted.
"Sir, is it compulsory?" someone shouted jokingly.
The dean smiled thinly. "Attendance is optional. Enjoyment is encouraged."
More laughter.
"Venue?" another student asked.
"University banquet hall," the dean replied. "Starts at eight. Dress appropriately."
A girl whispered loudly to her friend, "I'm wearing something that proves I survived."
The dean ignored it. "This is an opportunity to relax, socialize, and reset. You've earned it."
The announcement ended, but the excitement didn't.
The moment the dean left, noise flooded the hall.
"Party tonight!"
"We're going."
"Obviously."
"Who's bringing who?"
Phones came out instantly.
Group chats exploded.