Breakfast at the Nior mansion was never quiet.
It was controlled silence—cutlery clinking too sharply, chairs pulled too straight, conversations measured like everyone was afraid of saying the wrong thing and shattering something already cracked.
Rhea entered without announcement.
She wore simple clothes, hair tied back, face composed in the way her family had learned to fear more than anger. She walked in like she belonged there—and like she didn't care whether anyone agreed.
Kane was already seated at the table, tea untouched, eyes sharp even this early.
She looked up.
For a brief second, genuine surprise flickered across her face.
"Well," Kane said slowly, voice edged with disbelief, "how did you come today? Am I dreaming in the middle of the day?"
Rhea pulled out a chair and sat.
"No," she replied in a serious tone. Flat. Unemotional. "Shyra asked me."
The words were deliberate.
Kane's gaze snapped to Shyra.
Shyra, seated opposite with dark circles under her eyes and Amaya's bottle beside her plate, met Kane's stare without flinching.
"Yes," Shyra said calmly. "I asked her."
Kane's lips pressed thin. "Since when do you make decisions in this house?"
"Since my daughter needed her."
Rhea stood again without a word and moved toward Shyra. Amaya spotted her instantly, arms lifting in excitement.
"Ninna!" Amaya chirped.
Rhea's expression softened instantly—so subtly it would have been missed by anyone who didn't know her.
She took Amaya into her arms, holding her close, the child settling against her chest like it was the most natural place in the world.
Rhea kissed Amaya's hair gently. "Good morning, my star."
Amaya laughed and patted Rhea's cheek.
Kane watched the scene with something unreadable twisting behind her eyes.
"You suddenly have time for family now?" Kane said coldly. "Interesting."
Rhea didn't look at her. She adjusted Amaya's position instead, calm and steady. "I always did."
Kane scoffed. "You don't."
Rhea finally raised her eyes.
"I was locked inside this house," she said evenly. "And when I wasn't—I was broken."
The table went still.
Shyra's hand tightened slightly around her cup.
Kane stiffened. "Watch your tone."
"This is my tone," Rhea replied. "You just don't like it because it's quiet."
Amaya babbled, unaware, fingers curling around Rhea's collar.
Shyra spoke then, voice low but firm. "Enough. She's here for breakfast. Not interrogation."
Kane turned sharply. "You're taking her side now?"
"There are no sides," Shyra said. "There's damage. And there's a child who smiles when she sees her aunt."
Rhea lowered herself back into her chair with Amaya still in her arms. She began feeding her calmly, methodically—every movement careful, practiced.
Kane watched, jaw tight. "You're too soft with her."
Rhea didn't pause. "She's twenty months old."
"That's how it starts," Kane snapped. "Attachment. Weakness."
Rhea's hand stilled for half a second.
Then she looked up—eyes cold, controlled.
"No," she said quietly. "That's how survival starts."
Silence fell again.
Shyra exhaled slowly. "Rhea stayed up with her half the night," she said, not accusing, just stating fact. "She sang to her. She didn't complain once."
Kane's gaze flickered, unwilling to acknowledge it.
Rhea finished feeding Amaya and wiped her mouth gently. Amaya leaned into her, content.
"I'll take her after breakfast," Rhea said to Shyra. "You look exhausted."
Shyra smiled faintly.
Kane stood abruptly. "Don't get comfortable."
Rhea didn't react.
She only tightened her hold on Amaya slightly, grounding herself in the warmth, the weight, the quiet breathing against her chest.
"I'm not," Rhea said calmly. "I'm just present."
And for the first time that morning—
No one at the table had an answer to that.
Ling left the lecture hall without looking back.
The silence followed her into the corridor like a shadow that didn't dare detach. Doors closed softly behind her. Students inside exhaled only after she was gone, some gripping their notebooks as if they had just survived something more than a class.
Outside, the campus breathed again.
Ling adjusted her coat and walked toward the open wing connecting departments. Her steps were unhurried. Her expression unreadable. She did not rush. She never did.
That was when the noise shifted.
Laughter—louder, rougher. Not academic. Not respectful.
A group of boys from another class stood near the side exit, half-hidden by a concrete pillar. Older. Cocky. Watching her approach like she was entertainment.
One stepped forward deliberately, blocking her path.
"Oi," he said, eyes dragging over her face. "You think you own this place?"
Ling stopped.
She looked at him—not sharply, not angrily. Like he was a problem already solved.
Another boy laughed and flicked something metallic between his fingers. A knife.
Then another.
Then another.
Four blades caught the light.
"New professor," the first boy continued, smirking, "you need to learn how things work here."
Ling's gaze dropped briefly—to the knives. Then lifted again.
"You're in my way," she said calmly.
One of them scoffed. "Or what?"
Ling sighed—quietly. Almost bored.
She reached to the side.
There was a maintenance cart nearby. Tools laid out carelessly. Four knives sat in a tray—utility blades, sharp, clean.
Before any of them registered movement—
Ling picked them up.
One hand.
No rush.
The boys laughed.
Then—
She threw.
Not one by one.
Together.
Four knives left her hand in perfect unison, cutting through the air with a sound too soft to warn anyone.
They struck the wall behind the lead boy—
One on each side of his head.
One just above his shoulder.
One grazing past his cheek close enough for skin to feel the cold.
The tips embedded deep into concrete.
The boy froze.
Completely.
His breath stopped. Sweat broke instantly along his temple, dripping down his jaw. His knees locked. His hands went slack. The knife he'd been holding clattered to the floor.
The other didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Didn't breathe.
Ling stepped closer.
Her heels clicked once.
Then again.
She stopped directly in front of the boy, whose eyes were wide, unseeing, fixed on the blade inches from his face.
Ling tilted her head slightly.
"I hope," she said quietly, "you understood."
She leaned in just enough for only them to hear.
"It didn't miss," Ling continued. "I did it."
Her voice wasn't raised.
It didn't need to be.
She straightened and looked at all of them now.
"Pick up your toys," she said. "And disappear."
No one argued.
One boy swallowed hard and pulled the knives from the wall with shaking hands. Another nearly dropped one. The first boy stumbled back like his legs had forgotten their purpose.
They fled.
Ling watched them go without expression.
Then she turned, retrieved her bag from where she had placed it, and continued walking like nothing had happened.
Around the corner, students who had witnessed everything stood frozen, eyes wide, mouths half-open.
Ling passed them.
One girl whispered, barely audible, "She is dangerous."
Ling didn't slow.
Didn't look back.
Because fear, when taught correctly—
Never required contact.