By the third day, the university no longer tested Ling Kwong.
It had learned.
The change was not announced. There were no circulars, no warnings pinned to notice boards. Fear moved faster than paper ever could.
Corridors that once buzzed with careless laughter fell quiet when Ling walked through them. Groups broke apart instinctively. Phones were lowered. Spines straightened.
Not respect.
Fear.
In the staff room, a junior lecturer whispered to another, "Did you hear about the economics block?"
The other woman swallowed. "The boys from second year?"
"Yes."
"What happened?"
"They thought she was bluffing."
A pause.
"And?"
"They aren't students anymore."
Across campus, the story had already changed forms five times.
Some said four students had been expelled on the spot.
Some said one had landed in the hospital after provoking her during practical hours.
Some said Ling had made a single phone call and ended three families' political backing.
The truth was simpler—and worse.
Ling Kwong did not shout.
She did not threaten.
She simply acted.
On the third day, she entered a lecture hall where silence already waited for her.
Every seat was filled. No legs stretched out. No whispers. No phones.
Ling placed her folder on the desk and looked up.
Her gaze swept the room once.
No one breathed.
"Good," she said calmly. "You've learned."
A student in the front row swallowed and raised his hand, trembling slightly. "Ma'am… may I ask a question?"
Ling nodded. "You may."
"Are… are the rumors true?" he asked carefully. "About students being—"
"Removed?" Ling finished for him.
The boy nodded, throat working.
"Yes," Ling said flatly. "They are."
A murmur rippled through the hall before dying instantly under her gaze.
Ling continued, voice even. "Let me make something very clear. I did not remove them because they were loud. Or rude. Or arrogant."
She leaned forward slightly, hands resting on the desk.
"I removed them because they mistook this institution for a playground and me for an administrator who negotiates."
Her eyes hardened. "I do not negotiate with disrespect."
Silence pressed heavy.
Another student spoke without raising her hand, voice small. "Ma'am… will this happen again?"
Ling looked at her.
"Only if someone is foolish enough to try."
That was all.
After that, no one tried.
In the courtyard later that day, a group of seniors stood rigid as Ling passed.
One whispered under his breath, "Don't look."
Another muttered, "Too late."
Ling stopped.
Slowly, she turned her head.
Every heartbeat in that group spiked.
"You," she said, pointing at the first boy. "What year?"
"Third," he answered immediately.
"Good," Ling said. "You're old enough to know better."
"I— I meant no disrespect, ma'am."
Ling stepped closer, her presence heavy. "Intent does not erase consequence. Remember that."
"Yes, ma'am," he said, voice shaking.
She walked away.
The boy exhaled like he had been drowning.
The university was transformed.
Recklessness vanished.
Egos folded.
Those who hadn't learned through observation learned through absence—empty seats, erased names, careers ended before they could begin.
In the administrative wing, the dean wiped sweat from his brow as Ling signed a document.
"Ms. Kwong," he said carefully, "the campus has… stabilized."
Ling didn't look up. "Fear is stable."
"Yes," he agreed quickly. "Very."
She closed the file. "Make sure it stays that way."
As she left, staff watched her go with a mixture of awe and terror.
One whispered, "She's not ruling the university."
Another corrected quietly, "She owns it."
The university no longer asked who Ling Kwong was.
It knew.
And it behaved accordingly.
Somewhere else in the city, Rhea still hadn't returned to campus.
She didn't know that the halls she once walked calmly had been reshaped by another woman's shadow.
She didn't know that the silence waiting for her had a name.
Ling Kwong.
And the university—
It feared her now.
Ling finished her lecture precisely on time. The board behind her was filled edge to edge with clean, sharp handwriting—no wasted words, no unnecessary explanations. She capped the marker, placed it down, and turned to face the class.
No one moved.
No one breathed too loudly.
Ling adjusted her glasses slightly. "You may relax," she said coolly. "The lecture is over."
Only then did shoulders ease, chairs shift softly.
She gathered her file. "Class representative."
A girl in the second row stood up immediately, back straight, voice nervous but clear. "Yes, ma'am."
"Take attendance," Ling said. "Out loud."
The girl hesitated for a fraction of a second. "All of it?"
"Yes," Ling replied.
The room stiffened again.
The CR swallowed. "Alright."
She began.
"Ahmed?"
"Present."
"Zoya?"
"Present."
Names echoed one after another, each answered quickly, obediently. Ling leaned back against the desk, arms folded, gaze unfocused—listening without listening.
Until—
"Rhea Nior."
Silence.
The CR glanced up. "Rhea Nior?"
No answer.
A pause stretched.
Ling's brows drew together slightly.
The CR cleared her throat. "Absent, ma'am."
Ling straightened.
"What?" The word slipped out before she could stop it.
The entire class froze.
The CR flinched. "I—I said absent, ma'am."
Ling stared at her, eyes sharp now. "Repeat the name."
The girl blinked, confused but obedient. "Rhea… Nior."
Ling felt something cold slide down her spine.
No.
That wasn't possible.
Her jaw tightened. "Spell it."
The CR hesitated, then recited quickly, "R-H-E-A. N-I-O-R."
The room went so quiet it hurt.
Ling's fingers curled slowly into her palm.
You misheard, she told herself instantly.
Coincidence. Common name.
Except it wasn't.
Not that name.
Not together.
She forced her voice to remain even. "How long has she been absent?"
The CR glanced at her register. "Three days, ma'am."
Three.
Ling's chest tightened involuntarily.
Get a grip.
"It's not her," Ling said quietly to herself.
She adjusted her glasses again—a habit when her control wavered.
"It can't be."
Names repeated.
Coincidences happened.
She had built empires on logic, not emotion.
Still—
Her heart beat too hard.
She pulled her phone out, thumb hovering over the screen. She didn't call anyone. She didn't search anything.
Instead, she locked the screen again.
"Focus," she ordered herself.
Ahead of her, a name lingered like a wound that refused to close.
Rhea Nior was not supposed to exist here.
And Ling Kwong refused—absolutely refused—
to believe otherwise.