Chapter 19 — Blind SpotsMichael
Michael had long since discovered that proximity was not necessary for presence.
He stood where the glass panel gave him a clear view inside without putting him in anyone's line of sight from the bend of the hallway, which was somewhat hidden by the building's design. Behind him, students went by, their banter turning into background noise.
Hidayah took a seat at the corner desk facing the front wall. Laptop open. Back straight. Attention forward.
She had chosen a seat that balanced visibility and distance—far enough from the facilitator's table, close enough to engage. Michael noted it absently.
That, too, hadn't changed.
She absorbed information the same way she always had. Quietly. Thoroughly. As if knowledge itself were something to be respected.
Her fingers moved with efficient precision over the keyboard. She paused only once, nodding faintly as the facilitator spoke, then typed again.
Michael watched.
A student shifted, momentarily blocking his view. He adjusted his stance without thinking, angling slightly so the reflection in the opposite wall filled in the gaps.
When Hidayah came back into view, she had changed position.
Just a fraction.
The wheels of her chair had turned slightly sideways.
Not away from the front. Away from the side.
Michael felt a flicker of satisfaction.
She sensed it.
She didn't know what it was yet—but her instincts were sharpening. Awareness just creeping in through the cracks.
Good.
He checked the time.
Three minutes until the lesson ended.
Michael stepped back before the first student reached for the door handle, melting into the moving crowd without friction. By the time Hidayah stood, slinging her backpack over her shoulders, he was already gone.
Hidayah
The sensation didn't arrive suddenly.
It seeped in.
A pressure just beneath the skin.
Hidayah continued typing for a few seconds longer than necessary, forcing herself to finish the sentence she was on before lifting her hands from the keyboard. She told herself it was nothing—muscle memory, subconscious reaction, overactive nerves.
Still, she shifted her chair. Grounding herself in physical detail.
The cool metal of the armrest beneath her fingers.
The faint hum of laptops around her.
Mr Thomas' steady voice anchoring from her left.
She did not turn to look around.
She had learnt, in her first life, that reacting without certainty only fed the wrong outcomes.
When class ended, she packed efficiently, her movements practised and calm. Her eyes skimmed reflective surfaces automatically as she exited—glass panels, polished walls, window frames.
Nothing.
No one.
The feeling followed her anyway.
The library usually helped.
It was structured. Predictable. Safe.
Today, it felt exposed.
Hidayah chose a seat near the windows, arranging her space with quiet care—laptop centred, notebook aligned, pen placed exactly where her hand would reach without thought. She positioned herself so she could see the entrance without appearing vigilant.
Five minutes passed.
Then ten.
Her concentration slipped.
She lifted her gaze, scanning the room slowly.
Students leaned over textbooks. Someone whispered. Pages turned.
Across the library, near the shelves, a figure stood browsing.
Not facing her.
Not looking at her.
And yet—
The pressure intensified.
She looked back down—
And the memory broke through.
—
The sound came first.
A machine beeping... Too steady. Too clinical.
Her body felt wrong—heavy, unresponsive. She was aware of pain but unable to react to it, trapped behind immobility.
Voices floated nearby.
Muted. Detached.
She can't hear you.
Another voice, closer. Lower.
You were always too trusting.
—
Hidayah inhaled sharply.
Her hands clenched against the table's edge, breath controlled but shallow. The library snapped back into focus—sunlight slanting through glass, quiet murmurs, the scent of paper and air-conditioning.
She did not panic.
She did not doubt what she had experienced.
She knew exactly what it was.
A memory.
One she had not invited.
Her heartbeat steadied gradually, discipline overriding instinct. She closed her laptop with deliberate care, sliding it into her bag.
Someone was watching her.
Not enough to be seen but enough to disturb the past.
She stood and left the library without hesitation.
Khairul
Monday briefings rarely allowed room for distraction.
Khairul sat at the long conference table, posture composed, attention on the report projected against the wall. His uniform was immaculate, every crease deliberate.
Still, part of his awareness drifted.
It wasn't unusual for him to multitask. Years of training had sharpened his ability to hold multiple threads at once. But today, one thread kept tugging insistently at the edge of his focus.
He checked his phone during a natural pause.
No messages.
That alone was enough to register.
Hidayah was consistent. Not dependent—but orderly. She updated him when she changed locations, when she finished class, when she headed home.
Silence was not her habit.
He typed calmly.
How's your day going?
The reply came a minute later.
Okay. Just tired.
Khairul reread the message.
Short. Neutral. Controlled.
He leaned back slightly, gaze unfocusing as he considered the implications.
'Tired' could mean many things.
Mental fatigue. Emotional strain. Or vigilance.
He typed again.
Go home early if you can. Rest.
Then, after a pause—
Text me when you reach home.
He slipped the phone back into his pocket as the briefing resumed.
His jaw tightened subtly. Instinct told him something had crossed into her awareness today.
Not danger.
Not yet.
But proximity.
And proximity, left unchecked, had a way of escalating.
Michael watched her leave the library from the far end of the corridor.
Watched the way her stride sharpened, posture shifting into controlled readiness. Watched the careful way she scanned reflections without turning her head.
She knew something was wrong now.
Not the source.
Just the disturbance.
Michael's grip tightened around his phone.
That was fine. Awareness always came first.
And he had learnt, in both lives, that the most effective moves were made from blind spots.