The music deepened—slower now, heavier, like it was sinking straight into bone. The lights shifted, gold and crimson washing over the stage, shadows stretching and folding with every movement.
They kept dancing.
Rhea tried to focus on steps. On counts. On breathing. On anything except the strange pull tightening in her chest. Her gaze had stayed disciplined until then—face level, eyes unfocused, mask shielding everything.
Then it happened.
As Ling turned her slightly, guiding her into a half-spin, Rhea's eyes dropped by accident.
Just for a second.
And she saw it.
The chain.
Simple. Familiar.
Hanging against Ling's collarbone like it belonged there.
Rhea's breath stuttered.
Her steps faltered—barely, but Ling felt it instantly.
Ling's hand tightened at Rhea's waist, steadying her. Not rough. Instinctive.
"Easy," Ling said, low, controlled. "Stay with me."
The sound of her voice slid through Rhea like a blade.
Not loud.
Not commanding.
Just hers.
Rhea's eyes widened behind the mask.
No.
No, no, no.
Her mind scrambled, panicked, grasping for denial like it was oxygen.
It's coincidence.
Chains are common.
Voices sound similar.
She kept dancing.
She forced her feet to move, her body to follow, even as tears burned at the corners of her eyes. Her heart was slamming so hard she was sure the audience could hear it.
Ling guided her into another turn, fingers brushing the small of her back. Close. Too close.
"You're synchronizing nicely," Ling said, almost approving. "Don't fight the rhythm."
That tone.
That exact tone.
Rhea swallowed hard.
Ling turned her sharply—not aggressive, just decisive—and pulled her in closer, their bodies aligned with frightening precision. The move drew a collective gasp from the crowd.
Rhea's forehead nearly touched Ling's mask.
For the first time—
Their eyes met through the painted cutouts.
The world narrowed to that space.
Ling froze for a fraction of a second.
Something in Rhea's gaze—too familiar, too raw—hit her like a memory she had buried alive. Her grip tightened unconsciously.
"You're shaking," Ling said quietly. "Why?"
Rhea couldn't answer.
Because if she spoke again—if she heard that voice one more time without distance—she would shatter.
The music swelled.
Ling spun her.
Rhea turned smoothly, mechanically, tears finally breaking free and disappearing into her hair as centrifugal force hid them from the crowd.
Don't be real.
Please don't be real.
Ling caught her again, pulled her back in, breath steady but chest tight.
"Look at me," Ling said before she could stop herself.
Rhea did.
And that was the moment denial collapsed.
Not because of the mask.
Not because of the body.
But because of the chain.
Because of the voice.
Because of the way Ling held her like she already knew where Rhea would fall.
Rhea's lips parted. No sound came out.
Tears slid freely now, unchecked, streaking down beneath the mask, soaking into her hair.
Ling felt the wetness against her knuckles.
Her jaw tightened.
"What's wrong?" Ling demanded softly, urgently. "Tell me."
The final movement approached.
Ling dipped her.
Controlled. Deep. Elegant.
As Rhea leaned back in Ling's arms, the lights above them blurred completely. Her tears fell openly now, sliding down her temples, vanishing into her hairline.
Her breath hitched.
The music ended.
Applause thundered.
Ling pulled Rhea upright instantly, hands lingering a second too long before releasing her like she'd been burned.
They stood side by side again.
Masks on.
Silence between them screaming.
Rhea stared straight ahead, chest heaving, tears still falling.
Ling didn't move.
Didn't speak.
But her hand had curled slowly into a fist.
Whatever that reaction had been, whatever crack had opened inside her chest when the girl cried in her arms, Ling forced it shut. Coincidence. Adrenaline. Music. Atmosphere. That was all.
She straightened her blazer, posture immaculate, expression once again carved from control.
Rhea understood that instinctively.
That was why she stayed silent.
She kept her head slightly bowed, eyes fixed on the floor, breaths measured carefully so no sound escaped her lips. Not a sniffle. Not a tremor. She wiped nothing away. She didn't move to adjust the mask.
If she spoke—even one word—Ling would know.
And Rhea could not survive that.
The host's voice cut through the noise, cheerful and loud, giving them both something to hide behind.
"Round one complete!" she announced. "Judges, we have your decision?"
The judges leaned together briefly. A pause. The crowd leaned in.
A screen behind the stage lit up.
"Five pairs have been selected for exceptional synchronization, chemistry, and control."
Applause burst out.
Ling remained still.
Rhea's hands curled slowly at her sides.
Names were called.
One pair stepped forward.
Then another.
When the fourth name was announced, Rhea's pulse pounded so hard it made her dizzy.
"And finally—Golden Mask Pair number five."
A beat.
"The pair in red bands, crimson masks—center stage."
A spotlight snapped on them.
Rhea's breath caught.
Ling didn't react outwardly, but her jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. She inclined her head once and stepped forward with the same authority she'd walked into the hall with.
Rhea followed half a step behind, keeping her gaze down, letting Ling lead without question.
They stood under the light again.
Not touching this time.
The host clapped enthusiastically. "Beautiful work! You five pairs will advance automatically to Round Two."
Cheers erupted.
Ling did not look at her.
She kept her eyes forward, hands clasped behind her back, breathing steady.
If she looked—
If she focused—
The lie she'd forced herself into might crack.
Rhea stayed quiet.
She had mastered silence long ago.
The announcement finished.
"Congratulations to our five advancing pairs! Take a short break. Round Two begins shortly."
Music shifted. Lights softened. Staff guided couples off the stage.
Ling turned away first.
Rhea followed.
Still no words.
Still no confirmation.
But as they walked side by side into the holding area, Ling's pace unconsciously adjusted—matching Rhea's exactly.
And Rhea noticed.
She said nothing.
Because silence was the only thing keeping the truth from tearing them both apart.