By mid-afternoon, Rhea's fingers were numb. Her handwriting had grown messier, lines slanting as exhaustion set in. Her head throbbed. Her stomach twisted painfully, empty since morning.
Still—she wrote.
I humbly request your consideration…
Her classmates' voices blurred into noise.
"She's still writing?"
"That's humiliating."
"She looks like she hasn't slept."
"Professor went too far."
Rhea's eyes finally overflowed.
Tears slipped silently down her cheeks, dripping onto the page. She brushed them away quickly, smearing the ink, then rewrote the paragraph without hesitation.
She refused to stop.
Not because Ling demanded it.
But because stopping would mean breaking.
And Rhea Nior refused to break in front of them.
By the time the final bell rang, her notebook was thick with pages—dozens stacked together, edges bent, ink-stained, imperfect.
Not a hundred yet.
But close.
Rhea gathered the pages with shaking hands, pressing them to her chest for a moment—not for comfort, but to steady herself.
Her lips trembled as she whispered, barely audible even to herself:
"I hate her."
But the way her heart still raced at the thought of Ling—
That told a different truth.
She stood, wiped her face one last time, and walked out of the classroom.
Toward Ling's office.
Toward the person who was breaking her.
And the only one who ever could.
Rhea was walking fast, clutching the thick stack of applications to her chest like armor.
Her head was down. Her shoulders were tight. Every step felt heavy, but she kept moving—because stopping would mean listening, and listening would mean breaking.
That's when someone stepped into her path.
A boy from another department. Tall. Smirking. Too loud.
"Whoa," he laughed, blocking her way. "Careful there."
Rhea tried to sidestep him.
He didn't move.
Then—suddenly—his hand shot out.
He pushed the notebook.
Pages fluttered. A few slipped loose.
Rhea gasped instinctively and grabbed at them. "Don't—"
The boy laughed louder.
"Did you see her face?" he said to his friends, not even looking at Rhea. "When Kwong scolded her? Damn. Like an ant."
Laughter.
"Crushed," he continued, mocking. "Straight under her feet. So cool."
Rhea's fingers trembled as she tried to gather the pages.
"Give it back," she said quietly. "Please."
The boy bent down, picked up the notebook before she could—and held it out of reach.
"Aww," he mocked. "Don't cry, Nior."
She didn't cry.
Her eyes burned. Her chest felt too tight to breathe properly—but she stayed still.
"Give it back," she repeated. Firmer now.
The boy flipped through the pages exaggeratedly.
"One hundred applications?" he whistled. "Damn. She really hates you."
Rhea's jaw tightened.
"She doesn't hate me," Rhea said, voice low.
The boy laughed again. "Yeah? Then why'd she humiliate you like that?"
He raised the notebook slightly, glancing toward the fountain nearby.
"What if," he said lightly, "I threw this in the fountain?"
Something snapped.
Rhea lunged forward without thinking, grabbing his wrist.
"Don't," she said, voice shaking violently now. "Please don't."
The boy looked down at her hand on his arm, amused.
"Wow," he said. "Look at you. Begging."
He shook his arm roughly, forcing her to let go. Rhea stumbled back a step.
Her eyes were glassy now. Not weak—furious, wounded, desperate.
"Give it back," she said again. "I worked all day on that."
The boy tilted his head. "Or what?"
He took a step backward toward the fountain, holding the notebook over the water.
"Say sorry," he taunted. "Say you deserved it."
Rhea's breath hitched.
Around them, a few students slowed, watching. No one stepped in.
Her vision blurred.
"I didn't deserve it," Rhea said, voice breaking despite herself. "I didn't."
The boy shrugged. "Doesn't matter."
He turned slightly, arm pulling back—
"Give it back."
The voice was cold.
Controlled.
Dangerously calm.
The boy froze.
Rhea froze too.
She knew that voice the way her body knew pain.
Ling.
She stood a few steps away, coat still on, eyes locked on the boy's hand holding the notebook. Her face was unreadable—but her jaw was clenched so tight it could've cracked.
"What's going on here?" Ling asked slowly.
The boy laughed nervously. "Nothing, ma'am. Just joking around."
Ling's eyes flicked to Rhea.
Her face was pale. Eyes red. Hands shaking. Ink smudged on her fingers.
Something dark passed through Ling's expression.
"Put it down," Ling said.
The boy hesitated. "I was just—"
Ling took a single step forward.
"I said," she repeated softly, "put it down."
The boy swallowed and lowered the notebook, holding it out awkwardly.
Ling didn't take it.
"Give it to her," Ling said, eyes never leaving him.
The boy handed it to Rhea quickly, avoiding Ling's gaze.
Ling stepped closer—too close now.
"You find humiliation entertaining?" Ling asked quietly.
The boy shook his head. "No, ma'am."
Ling leaned in slightly, voice dropping even lower.
"Then remember this," Ling said. "The next time you touch what doesn't belong to you—especially one of my students—you won't be laughing."
The boy nodded rapidly. "Yes, ma'am."
"Go," Ling said.
He didn't wait to be told twice.
The crowd dispersed quickly, pretending they hadn't seen anything.
Silence settled between Ling and Rhea.
Rhea clutched the notebook tightly now, knuckles white. Her chest was heaving slightly. She refused to look up.
Ling watched her for a long moment.
"You should've reported it," Ling said stiffly.
Rhea laughed once—broken, bitter. "To who? You?"
Ling's jaw tightened.
Rhea finally looked up at her.
Her eyes were full now. Not just tears—hurt. Exhaustion. Humiliation layered on humiliation.
"You got what you wanted," Rhea said quietly. "I'm doing it. I'm obeying."
Ling's throat worked.
"That wasn't—" Ling started.
Rhea shook her head sharply. "Don't."
She stepped around Ling, hugging the notebook to her chest as if it were the only thing holding her together.
As she passed, Ling caught a glimpse of the pages—dozens upon dozens, handwritten, ink smudged with tears.
Ling's chest tightened painfully.
Rhea walked away without looking back.
Ling stood there, still as stone.
For the first time that day—
She didn't feel powerful.
She felt like she'd gone too far.
And the realization came too late to stop the damage already done.