The banquet hall glowed like money had learned how to breathe.
Crystal chandeliers hung low, scattering warm gold light across marble floors polished to perfection. The walls were draped in deep reds and muted golds, fabric falling in heavy folds that spoke of expense without explanation. Music flowed softly—live strings, controlled, elegant, never overpowering.
This was not a student party.
This was a statement.
Ling Kwong stepped out of the car.
The moment her shoes touched the ground, the surrounding air shifted. Security straightened. Staff moved faster. Heads turned—not openly, not foolishly—but enough.
She walked toward the entrance with unhurried confidence, blazer fitting her like it had been designed for this exact moment.
At the doors, a man in formal black attire stepped forward and bowed slightly.
"Welcome, Ms. Kwong," he said respectfully.
He gestured to a tray held by another attendant. On it lay ornate masks—beautiful, dangerous things. Gold filigree traced sharp lines, dark edges softened with delicate detailing. Each mask was unique. Each one expensive.
Beside them were bands—fabric, deep red, with subtle gold thread woven through the edges.
Ling's gaze narrowed slightly. "What is this for?"
"No one enters without a mask tonight," the man replied smoothly. "It's part of the evening's design. There's a surprise inside."
Ling paused.
"A surprise," she repeated flatly.
"Yes, ma'am."
For a moment, it looked like she might refuse.
Then she reached out.
Her fingers closed around one mask—gold with clean lines, not excessive, sharp enough to match her presence. Bauta. She turned it once in her hand, assessing weight, balance.
"Who planned this?" she asked.
"The university board," the man answered carefully. "Approved unanimously."
Ling gave a short, humorless smile. "Brave."
She lifted the mask and secured it over her face. It framed her eyes perfectly, accentuating the sharpness already there. If anything, it made her more unreadable. More dangerous.
The man then handed her the red band.
Ling studied it. "And this?"
"To be worn on the wrist," he said. "Color-coded. Tonight."
Ling's brow arched beneath the mask.
Still, she took it.
She wrapped the band around her wrist slowly, deliberately, fastening it with one precise movement. The deep red stood out against her pale skin, stark and unmistakable.
She stepped past him and into the hall.
The reaction was immediate.
Conversations dipped. Laughter softened. Even behind masks, people recognized presence when it walked in.
Ling moved through the space like she owned it—which, in every way that mattered, she did.
Students wore masks too—some ornate, some playful, some clearly chosen for attention. They whispered behind gloved hands.
"Is that her?"
"The owner?"
"Why does she look terrifying even with a mask?"
"Don't stare."
Ling heard everything.
She ignored it all.
She accepted a glass from a passing server without slowing. She didn't drink yet—just held it loosely, eyes scanning the room. Staff moved with rehearsed precision. Everything was exactly where it should be.
Rina appeared at her side moments later, also masked, though hers was lighter, softer.
"Well," Rina said under her breath, "this is dramatic."
Ling didn't look at her. "If it wasn't, it would be disappointing."
Rina chuckled. "You realize you've turned this into some kind of legend already, right? Masks. No names. Authority bands."
Ling finally glanced at her. "I didn't ask for mystery."
"You breathe it."
Ling turned her attention back to the crowd. "Tell the dean I want no incidents tonight."
Rina nodded immediately. "Already warned everyone. Twice."
"Good."
Ling took a step forward, the gold of her mask catching the light. Somewhere deeper inside the hall, music shifted—slower now, heavier.
A voice echoed faintly over the speakers, welcoming guests, explaining rules.
Masks on.
Names off.
Truth suspended.
Ling listened without reacting.
Her fingers brushed the chain at her neck—hidden beneath fabric, familiar, grounding. For half a second, something flickered behind her eyes.
Then it vanished.
She straightened, shoulders squared.
Whatever the surprise was—
This night belonged to Ling Kwong.
And she was ready.
Rhea stepped out of her room and closed the door quietly behind her.
The house was brighter downstairs, voices low but present, the usual evening rhythm of the Nior mansion. She adjusted nothing—not her dress, not her hair. If she started fixing herself, she wouldn't go at all.
She descended the stairs slowly.
Halfway down, the room changed.
Roin was standing near the sofa, talking to Kane. He was relaxed—until he looked up.
And saw Rhea.
His words stopped mid-sentence. His jaw tightened without permission. His eyes followed her, openly this time, caught between surprise and something far less respectable.
Rhea noticed.
She didn't acknowledge it.
She walked the last few steps and stopped near the dining table, posture straight, face unreadable.
Kane turned.
Her sharp eyes scanned Rhea from head to toe—taking in the dress, the confidence it carried, the quiet defiance in the way Rhea stood.
"Where are you going?" Kane asked.
Rhea answered without hesitation. "There's a university party."
The room went still.
Kane's brows drew together. "Party?"
"Yes."
Roin swallowed and forced himself to look away, then back again, clearly failing at pretending indifference.
"At night?" Kane continued. "Dressed like that?"
Rhea met her mother's gaze calmly. "It's an end-of-semester event."
"You don't attend such things now," Kane said flatly.
Rhea's voice remained even. "I am today."
Roin cleared his throat. "I can drive her," he offered quickly. "It's safer."
Rhea didn't even look at him. "Shyra is taking me."
Kane's eyes flicked to the door, as if expecting Shyra to appear on cue. "Since when do you listen to your sister more than me?"
Rhea didn't answer immediately.
Then, quietly, "Since I stopped knowing how to listen to myself."
The words landed heavier than intended.
Kane stiffened. "Don't talk like that."
"I'm not fighting," Rhea replied. "I'm informing you."
Roin shifted closer, unable to help himself. "You look… different," he said, attempting a smile. "Good different."
Rhea finally glanced at him—brief, cool. "That wasn't a question."
Roin's smile faltered.
Kane folded her arms. "What time will you be back?"
"I don't know," Rhea said honestly. "Not late."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
Silence stretched.