Ling turned to the board, uncapped the marker, and began writing with sharp, controlled movements.
"Hypothermia: Clinical Negligence, Delayed Response, and Irreversible Damage."
The title alone made Rhea's fingers curl around her pen.
Ling didn't look back at her as she spoke, voice calm, measured—every word perfectly enunciated, stripped of emotion.
"Hypothermia," Ling began, "is not dramatic. It is quiet. It doesn't announce itself with chaos. It creeps in while everyone around assumes the patient is fine."
A few students nodded, scribbling notes.
Rhea felt her throat tighten.
Ling paced slowly, heels clicking softly. "Early signs are often dismissed—shivering, confusion, fatigue. Patients themselves lie about how bad it is. They underestimate it. Or worse—deny it."
Her eyes flicked briefly toward the third row.
Toward Rhea.
Just a glance.
Enough.
Rhea's pulse spiked.
Ling continued, tone sharpening almost imperceptibly. "The danger escalates when intervention is delayed. When the patient is left alone. When warmth is inconsistent. When monitoring is interrupted."
Rhea's chest felt heavy.
She remembered the freezer cold biting into her bones. The way she'd laughed weakly, thinking she could push through it. The way she'd mocked Ling even as her body shut down.
Ling stopped walking.
"Advanced hypothermia," she said flatly, "results in paradoxical calm. The patient stops shivering. Stops responding. To an untrained observer, they look… peaceful."
A chill ran through the room.
Rhea's hands trembled. She placed them flat on the desk, grounding herself.
Ling turned around fully now, facing the class.
"Which is why," she said, voice dropping, "assuming recovery without proper evaluation is lethal."
Her gaze landed on Rhea again—longer this time.
Unblinking.
"You don't walk away," Ling continued evenly, "because the patient looks stable. You don't decide your responsibility ends when the crisis appears resolved."
The words sliced.
Rhea's jaw clenched hard.
Is this a lecture, she thought angrily, or a punishment?
Ling walked closer to the first row, posture flawless, expression unreadable. "There is also a psychological component," she added. "Patients who survive severe hypothermia often develop memory gaps, emotional volatility, denial patterns."
A pause.
"They may insist nothing serious happened."
Rhea swallowed.
"They may rewrite events to protect themselves from trauma."
Rhea's breath hitched.
Ling set the marker down with deliberate care.
"As clinicians," Ling said, voice steel-edged now, "your job is not to indulge denial. It is to confront reality—whether the patient likes it or not."
Silence pressed down on the room.
A student hesitantly raised a hand. "Professor… are you speaking from case studies or—"
Ling cut a look toward them so sharp it made the student drop their hand mid-air.
"Both," Ling replied.
Rhea's nails dug into her palm.
Anger flared hot and sudden, burning away the shock.
She thinks she gets to do this? Rhea thought. Stand there and dissect me like a case? After leaving? After letting me believe—
Her chest ached.
Ling resumed the lecture, pulling up slides now—clinical data, graphs, survival rates. Cold facts. No room for emotion.
But every example she gave felt pointed.
"Survival depends heavily on whether the patient was actively monitored."
Ling's eyes flicked to Rhea.
"On whether someone stayed."
Another flick.
"On whether someone refused to leave."
Rhea's vision blurred.
Her heart pounded painfully, a mix of fury and something far worse—longing.
Because despite everything—
Ling had left the room.
And somehow that hurt more.
The lecture ended without warning.
Ling closed her laptop crisply. "Class dismissed."
Chairs scraped. Students murmured, gathering their things quickly.
Rhea stayed seated, spine rigid, staring straight ahead.
One by one, the room emptied.
Until only the two of them remained.
Ling stood at the front, gathering her papers slowly, methodically—giving Rhea time to leave if she wanted.
She didn't.
Rhea stood finally, legs weak but stubborn.
"You could've just said my name," Rhea said, voice tight. "You didn't need to—perform."
Ling didn't look at her.
"This is a university," Ling replied coolly. "I lecture."
Rhea laughed bitterly. "Right. Because everything you said was so academic."
Ling's hands stilled.
Slowly, she turned.
Up close, the control was terrifying. Her face was calm, but her eyes—dark, sharp, burning—betrayed everything she refused to say.
"You were absent," Ling said. "Without application."
"I was in the hospital," Rhea snapped. "I almost died."
Ling's jaw flexed.
"I know," she said quietly.
The words landed like a punch.
Rhea froze. "Then why—"
"Because," Ling cut in, voice low and dangerous now, "almost dying doesn't exempt you from accountability."
Rhea's breath shook. "You left."
Ling stepped closer.
"So did you," Ling said.
Silence crashed between them—thick, suffocating, loaded with every unspoken accusation.
Two women standing feet apart.
Both wounded.
Both furious.
Ling's expression hardened, like steel cooling after being reforged.
"You know what," Ling said calmly, voice dropping into something far more dangerous than shouting, "you should remember your place."
Rhea stiffened.
Ling took one measured step forward, heels clicking once against the floor. Her presence filled the room now—commanding, suffocating.
"You are talking to Professor Kwong, Miss Rhea," Ling continued evenly. "And I do not want you speaking to me like that again."
Rhea's eyes flashed.
"Oh?" she shot back, bitterness spilling over. "Is that how it works now? You hide behind a title and pretend—"
"That's enough," Ling cut in sharply.
Rhea laughed—short, incredulous, hurt wrapped in anger. "Enough? You stand there, dissect my life in front of a class, pretend you don't know me, and now you want respect?"
Ling's jaw clenched visibly.
She straightened, every inch of her posture screaming control.
"I am no one to you," Ling said coldly, repeating each word with precision. "But your professor."
Rhea scoffed. "Don't flatter yourself."
Ling's eyes darkened.
"And," Ling added, voice like ice cracking, "the owner of this university."
The words landed heavy.
Rhea froze for half a second—then her chin lifted stubbornly.