The lights dimmed again, slower this time, deliberate.
The music softened into a low, pulsing rhythm—something that felt less like celebration and more like anticipation. The kind that settled into the chest and stayed there.
The host returned to the center of the stage, heels clicking sharply against the floor. She waited until the crowd quieted, until every eye was fixed on her.
"Round Two," she said, voice dropping slightly, "is not about performance."
A pause.
"It's about control."
Murmurs rippled through the hall.
Ling stood with her shoulders squared, expression unreadable behind the mask. Rhea remained still beside her, hands relaxed at her sides, spine straight, face angled slightly down. She did not look at Ling. She did not dare.
The host lifted a sleek black device from the table behind her.
"Welcome to Control the Signal."
Screens around the banquet hall lit up with visuals of a heart-rate monitor, numbers pulsing in time with the music.
"Here are the rules," the host continued, turning slowly so everyone could see her.
"Each pair will decide roles."
She raised one finger.
"Partner A will wear the heart-rate monitor."
Another finger.
"Partner B will watch the numbers."
A smile curved her lips. "Only Partner B is allowed to speak."
A low reaction moved through the crowd—interest sharpening into something heavier.
"Masks stay on," the host added. "No exceptions."
Assistants moved onto the stage, distributing the monitors to the pairs. A small band, sleek and metallic, meant to be worn snugly around the wrist.
Rhea accepted it without comment.
Her fingers were steady as she fastened it around her own wrist.
Ling noticed.
She told herself it meant nothing.
"Once the music starts," the host said, "Partner B must raise Partner A's heart rate."
She gestured to the screen, where numbers ticked upward in a demonstration.
"Through intention," she emphasized.
"Through presence."
"And through touch."
The music dipped lower, slower.
"Touch may escalate," the host went on calmly, as if she were explaining laboratory procedure.
"Firm guiding of the wrists."
A visual flashed briefly on the screen.
"Slow pressure at the waist. The back. The thighs."
The crowd went quiet.
"Deliberate proximity," the host finished. "Hovering. Closing space. Controlling distance."
Ling's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
Rhea's breath slowed.
The host lifted her chin. "Partner B must focus on the signal. Partner A must not resist."
Another pause.
"From the five Mask pairs," she said, "three pairs will advance."
The screen displayed a ranking column—empty, waiting.
"The pairs who achieve the highest sustained increase in heart rate," the host concluded, "win."
She smiled brightly then, as if nothing about this was dangerous at all.
"Take your positions."
Music swelled—low, rhythmic, insistent.
Ling turned slightly toward Rhea.
She didn't speak yet.
Rhea stood exactly where she was placed, eyes forward, mask hiding everything except the tension she could no longer fully control.
Ling lifted her hand slowly.
Not touching.
Hovering.
The number on the screen flickered once.
Up.
Ling noticed.
She said nothing.
And Round Two began.
They were seated on low stools, facing each other.
Five pairs. Five circles of light on the stage. The rest of the hall dimmed into irrelevance.
Music pulsed—slow, deliberate, almost predatory.
Rhea sat straight-backed, hands resting loosely on her thighs, heart monitor snug around her wrist. Her mask hid her face, but it did nothing to hide what her body remembered. Her breathing was already too careful.
Across from her, Ling sat with one leg slightly forward, elbows resting lazily on her knees, posture relaxed in a way that was never truly relaxed. Controlled. Always controlled.
The screen behind them lit up with five separate heart-rate lines.
Most pairs hesitated.
Some laughed nervously.
Some whispered.
Some touched too fast, too clumsy.
Ling did none of that.
She leaned forward—slowly.
Not touching.
Just closing the distance.
Rhea's pulse jumped immediately.
The number spiked, subtle but undeniable.
Ling's eyes flicked to the screen. She saw it.
Interesting.
She tilted her head slightly, studying the reaction like a scientist observing an experiment. Then she leaned back again, reclaiming her space.
The number dipped.
Ling's lips curved faintly behind the mask.
So that was how it worked.
She leaned in again—this time closer.
Close enough that Rhea could feel the heat of her body. Close enough that Ling's knee brushed the inside of Rhea's calf by accident.
Or not.
Rhea's fingers twitched.
The number climbed faster now.
Ling spoke, her voice low, controlled, deliberately soft so only Rhea could hear.
"Relax," she murmured. "You're too tense."
The sound of her voice—
Rhea's breath hitched before she could stop it.
Her heart rate jumped sharply.
Ling stilled.
Her eyes went back to the screen.
The spike was impossible to miss.
She didn't react outwardly. Didn't pull away. Didn't press closer either. She let the silence stretch, let the music fill the space between them.
Other pairs were escalating—hands on waists, fingers curling, whispers growing bold.
Ling chose precision.
She reached out and lightly took Rhea's wrist—the one without the monitor.
Not gripping.
Guiding.
Her thumb pressed once, firm but measured, right over the pulse point.
Rhea swallowed.
The number climbed again.
Ling's gaze darkened with focus.
"Good," Ling said quietly, not knowing why the word felt natural on her tongue. "You respond quickly."
Rhea said nothing.
She couldn't.
Her chest felt too tight. Her thoughts too loud. Every instinct screamed to move, to flee, to lean in—all at once.
Ling shifted closer still, their knees now almost touching.
She leaned toward Rhea's ear again, her breath grazing the edge of the mask.
"You don't need to try," Ling whispered. "Just stay still."
That did it.
Rhea's heart rate surged, the line on the screen climbing steeply.
A murmur went through the crowd.
The host's eyebrows lifted.
Ling straightened slightly, satisfied—not emotionally, just tactically.
She glanced at the rankings.
Their pair was climbing fast.
Ling leaned back just enough to let the number stabilize, hovering at its peak. Control. Not chaos.
She spoke again, softer this time.
"Breathe," she said. "Slowly."
Rhea obeyed without thinking.
The number dipped—then steadied high.
Ling watched, impressed despite herself.
"You listen well," she added.
Rhea's hands clenched in her lap.
She didn't answer.
She couldn't risk it.
Across the stage, one pair faltered. Another's numbers plateaued.
Ling leaned forward, closing the space fully—
Rhea's heart rate surged again, higher than before.
The screen flashed.
Their pair moved into the top three.