Ling turned slowly.
Kane stood there—perfect posture, immaculate coat, eyes sharp with restrained fury. She hadn't been crying. She hadn't been frantic.
She had been waiting.
"No," Kane said again, stepping forward, blocking the door fully. "You don't get to go in."
Ling's face hardened instantly. Whatever softness had cracked earlier sealed shut.
"She almost died," Ling said evenly.
Kane laughed once, short and cold. "Don't talk to me like you own the air here."
Ling stepped closer. "I'm not here to talk. I'm here to see her."
Kane's eyes narrowed. "She hates you."
The word hit.
Ling didn't flinch.
"Then she can tell me herself," Ling replied flatly.
"She already has," Kane snapped. "She told me everything. How you broke her. Controlled her. Terrified her. You think almost dying erases that?"
Ling's jaw tightened.
"She was in danger," Ling said. "I did what anyone would've done."
Kane scoffed. "Anyone?" She leaned in slightly. "Or the same person who keeps showing up just long enough to destroy her peace again?"
Ling's hands curled slowly into fists at her sides.
"I didn't come back for forgiveness," Ling said. "I didn't come back for love. I came because she was dying."
Kane's voice went colder. "Then you've done your part."
Ling looked at the door again—white, closed, separating her from the only person who had ever dismantled her without trying.
"I want five minutes," Ling said. "I won't touch her. I won't wake her. I just—"
"No," Kane cut in sharply. "You don't get minutes anymore."
Ling's eyes finally flashed. "You don't get to decide that."
"Oh, but I do," Kane replied calmly. "Because she's my daughter. And she doesn't like you anymore."
Silence stretched tight between them.
Ling exhaled slowly through her nose.
"That's not true," she said quietly.
Kane smiled thinly. "You always think you know her better than everyone else."
Ling met her gaze fully now. "I know when she's afraid. I know when she lies. And I know when she's unconscious because her body shut down trying to survive what she couldn't say out loud."
Kane's expression flickered—just for a second.
Then hardened again.
"And I know," Kane said, "that every time you enter her life, she bleeds. So you will leave. Like anyone else would."
Ling's voice dropped dangerously low. "Anyone else didn't pull her out of freezing steel and hold her heart together with their bare hands."
Kane stepped closer. "And anyone else wouldn't keep convincing themselves that violence equals devotion."
Ling snapped back instantly. "I didn't hurt her tonight."
"You hurt her long before tonight," Kane shot back. "And she paid for it."
Ling went still.
Her voice came slower now. Controlled. Deadly calm.
"If she wakes up and tells me to leave," Ling said, "I will."
Kane raised an eyebrow. "And until then?"
Ling swallowed once. Hard.
"I'll stand right here," she said. "Because even if she hates me—"
her voice faltered for half a breath, then steadied,
"—she doesn't deserve to wake up alone."
Kane stared at her for a long moment.
Then she turned sharply toward the nurse station. "Security," she said. "Make sure she doesn't enter."
Ling didn't move.
Didn't argue.
Didn't beg.
She simply stepped back from the door, leaned against the wall opposite it, and crossed her arms.
Her eyes never left that door.
Not once.
Because even shut out—
even unwanted—
Ling Kwong stayed.
As the one person who would never again run when Rhea was still breathing.
Rhea woke slowly.
Not the sudden gasp people talked about—no sharp return to life. It crept in, heavy and disoriented, like she was being dragged upward through thick water. Her body felt wrong. Too heavy. Too numb. Her chest ached faintly, every breath shallow and careful, like her lungs were still learning how to work again.
Her eyelids fluttered.
White ceiling. Soft beeping. The smell of antiseptic.
Hospital.
Her throat burned when she swallowed. "Shy…ra?" Her voice came out cracked, barely sound.
Shyra leaned forward instantly, relief washing over her face. "Hey. Hey—slow. You're okay." She brushed Rhea's hair back gently. "You scared us."
Rhea blinked again, trying to focus. Her head throbbed dully, but the cold was gone. Warm blankets surrounded her. An IV tugged at her hand.
Her eyes shifted.
Kane stood on the other side of the bed, arms crossed, posture perfect, expression unreadable.
Rhea frowned faintly. Something felt wrong—not physically. Deeper.
"…Ling?" she whispered.
The room stilled.
Shyra inhaled sharply, about to speak.
Kane answered first.
"She left," Kane said flatly.
Rhea's eyes widened just a fraction. "Left…?" Her breath hitched, subtle but real. "No. She was—she was there."
Kane's tone was calm, controlled. "She did what anyone would do in an emergency. Then she went."
Shyra opened her mouth. "Mom—"
Kane shot her a warning look without even turning her head. "Don't confuse her."
Rhea tried to push herself up, winced, and sank back weakly. Panic crept in despite her effort to suppress it. "She didn't—" She swallowed. "She wouldn't leave like that."
Kane stepped closer to the bed. "Rhea. Listen to me."
Rhea's fingers curled slowly into the sheets. "What did she say?"
Kane didn't hesitate. "She said she'd done her part. That she wasn't going to waste her time anymore."
The words landed like blunt force.
Rhea went very still.
Shyra's face tightened. "That's not—"
"Mom," Shyra tried again, more urgently, "this isn't the time—"
Kane raised a hand. "Enough."
Rhea stared at the ceiling now, blinking too fast. Her lips parted slightly, but no sound came out at first. Her chest felt tight again, not cold this time—empty.
"Oh," she murmured finally.
The word was soft. Small. Too calm.
Shyra reached for Rhea's hand, squeezing it gently. "Rhea—she—"
Rhea pulled her hand back weakly, not angry, just tired. "It's okay," she said quietly. "I get it."
Kane watched closely. "You don't need her confusion right now. You need rest. Healing."
Rhea nodded once, mechanically. "Yeah. Of course."
Her eyes burned, but she didn't cry. She stared past both of them, gaze unfocused, mind replaying fragments she couldn't piece together properly—Ling's voice shouting, arms around her, warmth against freezing skin. Begging. Crying.
Or maybe she imagined it.
"She always leaves," Rhea said softly, almost to herself.
Shyra's throat tightened. "Rhea…"
Rhea forced a faint, humorless smile. "It's fine. We were done anyway."
Kane's expression softened just enough to seem convincing. "Exactly. This is better. Clean."
Rhea closed her eyes.
The room felt quieter suddenly. Safer, maybe. But hollow. Like something essential had been removed while she was asleep.
"How long was I out?" she asked.
"Several hours," Kane replied. "Your body needed it."
Rhea nodded again. "Good."
She turned her face slightly toward the window, away from both of them. Her lashes trembled, betraying her.
Shyra watched her, helpless, knowing exactly who wasn't standing on the other side of that glass door anymore.
Rhea whispered, barely audible, "Figures."
And no one corrected her.
Because the lie had already settled—
heavy, believable, and perfectly timed—
right into the space where Ling Kwong should have been.