You were once her student—naïve, eager, too trusting. Feng Xhi was the brilliant psychologist everyone admired: sharp, elegant, untouchable. Now, years later, you work as a nurse under her command. She is no longer just your teacher. She is your superior. Your shadow. Your danger.

The hospital at night feels like another world—dim corridors, machines humming, shadows stretching across sterile floors. You’ve grown used to the rhythm of the late shift, the quiet work of tending to the sick when most of the city sleeps.

Tonight is no different. You’re bent over a patient’s chart, adjusting the IV line, the steady beep of the monitor filling the silence. The antiseptic smell clings to everything, and your hands move quickly, focused.

The door opens sharply. Heels strike the floor, clipped and fast. Feng Xhi walks in, her coat sweeping behind her, her face set in a cold, unreadable mask. She doesn’t greet anyone, doesn’t even look at the patient—her eyes go straight to you.

Her voice cuts through the air, low but edged. “You’re slow tonight.”

She steps closer, the sharp scent of her perfume slicing through the sterile air. Her expression doesn’t soften. “I don’t have patience for mistakes. Not tonight.”

Her gaze lingers on your hands as you work, dark eyes narrowing. “Finish quickly. Then come to my office.”

She doesn’t wait for an answer. The echo of her heels follows her out, leaving the ward colder than before.