Ling turned suddenly and slammed her palm flat on the desk.
"Answer me," she snapped. "What happens when a surgeon avoids accountability?"
No one spoke.
Ling's gaze bored into the class. "I asked a question."
Rhea inhaled slowly, then spoke—controlled but edged.
"They shouldn't be in the operating room."
A murmur rippled.
Ling looked at her.
Slowly.
"Stand up," Ling ordered.
Rhea's chair scraped softly as she rose.
Ling approached her, stopping just short of her desk.
"Say that again," Ling said quietly.
Rhea met her eyes. "If someone avoids accountability," she repeated, "they shouldn't be trusted with lives."
Ling stared at her for a long moment.
Then she nodded once.
"Correct," Ling said. "And yet—"
Her voice hardened.
"Some people think running away absolves them."
Rhea's eyes flashed. "Some people think authority excuses abandonment."
The air snapped.
Several students sucked in a breath.
Ling leaned closer, lowering her voice so only Rhea could hear.
"This is a classroom," Ling said. "Not your battlefield."
Rhea leaned in just enough to answer, voice shaking with restrained fury.
"You brought the war in with you."
Ling straightened abruptly.
"Sit," she said sharply.
Rhea sat.
Ling turned back to the desk, jaw clenched, hands slightly trembling now—not from fear, but from restraint.
The door was still closed. The air was still thick. Students sat frozen, notebooks open but useless, eyes darting between Ling and Rhea, sensing something far more personal than a lecture unfolding.
Ling flipped through the pages on her desk sharply. One file. Then another. Her movements were clipped, angry, controlled only by force.
Then she stopped.
Her fingers tightened around the papers.
She lifted her head slowly.
Her eyes found Rhea.
"Miss Nior," Ling said formally—but the restraint in her voice was cracking. "Stand up."
Rhea's spine stiffened.
She stood.
The scrape of her chair echoed too loudly in the silent room. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, but she lifted her chin, forcing her face into neutrality.
Ling stepped forward, papers clenched in her hand.
"I asked," Ling said, voice rising despite herself, "for your application."
She slammed the papers onto the desk.
"Where is it?"
Her eyes were wide now. Furious. Raw. Unfiltered.
Rhea felt it hit her like a wave.
She swallowed, throat dry. Her fingers trembled slightly at her sides, but she forced herself to speak evenly.
"I submitted it," Rhea said. "To the principal."
The room collectively held its breath.
Ling's expression shattered.
"What?" she shouted.
Several students flinched.
Ling took two sharp steps forward. "Did I ask you to submit it to the principal?"
Her voice rang through the classroom, sharp enough to cut.
Rhea's lips parted.
Her eyes burned.
"No," she said quietly.
That single word seemed to ignite Ling completely.
"Then why," Ling snapped, "do you keep making decisions you were not asked to make?"
She pointed at Rhea, finger shaking with rage. "Do you think you're above instructions?"
Rhea's eyes welled despite her effort. She blinked hard, refusing to let the tears fall.
"I didn't want to come to your office," Rhea said, voice tight but defiant. "That's all."
Ling laughed—short, bitter, almost unhinged.
"Oh, you didn't want to," Ling repeated coldly. "How convenient."
She leaned forward slightly, towering over Rhea.
"You don't get to decide what you want here," Ling said harshly. "You follow procedure."
Rhea clenched her fists.
"You're not my—" she started.
Ling's voice cut her off like a whip.
"I am your professor," Ling shouted. "And the owner of this damn university."
The words landed heavy.
Rhea flinched despite herself.
Ling saw it.
Her jaw tightened further, fury mixing with something darker—hurt, obsession, loss.
"You think avoiding me changes anything?" Ling continued, voice loud, unforgiving. "You think handing papers to someone else erases responsibility?"
Rhea shook her head slightly. "I wasn't trying to erase anything."
Ling scoffed. "Then what were you trying to do?"
Rhea hesitated.
That hesitation was all Ling needed.
"Answer me," Ling demanded.
Rhea's voice cracked despite her effort. "I was trying not to fight with you."
A few students looked down, uncomfortable.
Ling froze for a split second.
Then her anger surged back even harder.
"So instead," Ling snapped, "you disobey?"
She slammed her palm on the desk again. "You think silence is discipline? You think avoidance is maturity?"
Rhea shook her head, tears now pooling dangerously. "You scare me when you're like this."
The words slipped out before she could stop them.
The room went dead silent.
Ling stared at her.
Her fury didn't disappear—but something flickered behind it. Something sharp and wounded.
"You should be scared," Ling said coldly. "This profession doesn't tolerate emotional weakness."
Rhea's tears finally spilled, one escaping despite her clenched jaw. She wiped it away angrily.
"You're not teaching discipline," Rhea said, voice shaking but brave. "You're punishing me."
Ling stepped closer again, too close now.
"You don't get to accuse me," Ling said lowly, dangerously. "Not after everything you—"
She stopped herself mid-sentence.
Her breathing was heavy.
The class could feel it—this wasn't about applications anymore.
Rhea met her eyes, hurt blazing through fear.
"You hate me," Rhea said quietly.
Ling's lips trembled almost imperceptibly.
"I don't hate you," Ling snapped immediately. "Don't flatter yourself."
Rhea let out a broken laugh. "Then why does it feel like you want to crush me every time you see me?"
That question hung in the air like a wound.
She reached for the application.
Rhea barely had time to react before Ling took the paper from desk. The sound of it tearing was sharp—violent—in the dead silence of the classroom.
Rip.
Rip.
Rip.
Gasps echoed around the room.
Ling tore it slowly, deliberately, eyes never leaving Rhea's face, as if she wanted every shred to cut deep. When she was done, she threw the pieces onto the floor between them like trash.
"This," Ling shouted, voice shaking with fury, "is what happens when you think rules bend for you."
Rhea's breath hitched.
Her face went pale. Her ears rang. For a moment, she couldn't hear anything except the pounding of her own heart. The humiliation burned hotter than the fear—being stripped bare in front of everyone.