The sports hall smelled faintly of disinfectant and old rubber mats, a scent Hidayah had long associated with discipline rather than comfort.
She arrived earlier than usual.
Bags placed against the wall. Shoes aligned. Sleeves adjusted.
Routine was structure. Structure was safety.
Coach Azrul was already there, arms crossed, watching another group finish their cooldown drills. When his gaze landed on Hidayah, he didn't smile — but he nodded once, acknowledgment rather than approval.
"Hidayah," he called.
She stepped forward immediately.
"You've been training outside," he said.
"Yes."
"With someone who uses a different system."
"Yes."
Coach Azrul studied her stance, her shoulders, the way she stood slightly more upright than before.
"Good," he said. "Then today, we test not your technique… but your awareness."
Her pulse quickened.
The drill was explained simply.
Too simply.
"Three opponents," Coach Azrul said, voice even. "They will not rotate. They will not wait. They will not attack in sequence."
Hidayah's eyes flicked to the mat.
Three people stepped forward.
Different builds.
Different temperaments.
One fast and light-footed.
One heavy and grounded.
One unpredictable — constantly shifting weight, never still.
"No points," Coach Azrul continued. "No winning. The goal is not to dominate."
He looked directly at her.
"The goal is to stay present."
Hidayah inhaled slowly.
She stepped onto the mat.
The moment Coach Azrul dropped his hand, the air changed.
The first strike came from the left.
She pivoted instinctively, redirecting the force, lowering her center of gravity.
The second came immediately after — not where she expected.
She blocked, but late.
The third didn't strike at all — it moved, cutting off her exit.
Hidayah felt it then.
Not panic.
Compression.
Her world narrowed as her senses sharpened — sound, movement, breath.
She reminded herself: Don't anticipate. Respond.
She dropped low, sweeping one opponent's ankle, but didn't follow through. No time. Another was already closing in.
She moved again.
And again.
Minutes stretched.
Her breathing deepened.
Her calves burned.
Every instinct screamed to end something — finish a sequence, force control.
But this wasn't that kind of training.
This was survival without escape.
She misjudged once.
A shoulder clipped her ribs — not hard, but enough.
She recovered.
Misjudged again.
A hand slipped past her guard.
Her rhythm fractured.
Coach Azrul didn't stop it.
He watched.
By the tenth minute, Hidayah felt the strain move inward.
Her muscles still obeyed.
Her technique still held.
But her focus began to blur.
She caught herself thinking ahead.
If I move here—
Wrong.
The opening appeared too late.
She was surrounded.
Not struck — but contained.
The realization hit her harder than any blow.
She froze.
Just for a heartbeat.
Enough.
A leg hooked hers.
She went down.
The mat met her back with a dull thud.
Silence followed.
Coach Azrul raised his hand.
"Enough."
Hidayah sat up immediately, chest heaving.
Her face was calm.
Her eyes were not.
"That," Coach Azrul said evenly, "is what happens when awareness collapses."
She nodded.
"I anticipated instead of listening," she said.
"Yes." He stepped closer. "And that's new for you."
The words cut deeper than reprimand.
"You're stronger," he continued. "Faster. More capable."
He paused.
"And more vulnerable."
That night, the boxing gym in Chong Pang felt different.
The walls were the same.
The equipment unchanged.
But Khairul noticed the tension the moment Hidayah stepped inside.
She warmed up meticulously.
Too meticulously.
Every movement precise. Controlled. Guarded.
He slipped on his pad half gloves without comment.
"Start slow," he said.
She nodded.
They moved.
Her strikes were clean.
Her footwork disciplined.
But she hesitated.
Not in fear.
In calculation.
Khairul adjusted.
Closed distance abruptly.
She reacted — but late.
He stopped immediately.
"Hidayah…"
She exhaled sharply.
"I fell today."
He waited.
"Not from exhaustion," she continued. "From crowding."
Khairul's jaw tightened.
"How many?"
"Three."
He didn't respond immediately.
That explained it.
They changed the drill.
Khairul called in two others from the gym — men he trusted.
"Light contact," he instructed. "No pattern."
Hidayah stiffened slightly.
But she nodded.
The moment they started, the pressure multiplied.
This wasn't silat.
This wasn't MMA.
This was overlap.
Strikes threatened from different angles. Footwork collided. Space vanished.
Hidayah's breath shortened.
Her stance lowered.
She blocked one strike — missed another.
Khairul moved constantly, adjusting pressure, never overwhelming her completely.
But he didn't rescue her either.
Minutes passed.
Her shoulders tightened.
Her thoughts scattered.
And then it happened.
She lunged.
Too decisively.
One opponent feinted.
Another closed in.
Her balance faltered.
Khairul stepped in instantly.
"Stop."
She froze, chest heaving.
Her eyes were sharp — furious, focused, frustrated.
"I know what I did wrong," she said.
Khairul shook his head.
"That's not the point."
He removed his gloves slowly.
"You're trying to control chaos," he said. "You can't."
She looked away.
"I need to," she said quietly.
He felt something twist in his chest.
Later, after the gym emptied, they sat on the floor, backs against the wall.
Sweat cooled on their skin.
Neither spoke for a long time.
"You're rushing," Khairul said eventually.
She didn't deny it.
"The competition," she admitted. "Coach hasn't finalised the list of participants yet. But I know I can make it."
"And you think pressure-proofing yourself will make you ready."
"Yes."
Khairul closed his eyes briefly.
"This kind of training sharpens instincts," he said. "But it also strips margin for error."
She turned to him.
"I don't want margin," she said. "I want certainty."
He looked at her then — really looked.
And understood the danger.
Not of failure.
Of obsession.
Over the next week, the training intensified.
At school, Coach Azrul increased complexity — open sparring, unpredictable pairings, fatigue layered onto awareness drills.
At the gym, Khairul focused on recovery under pressure — teaching her to pause inside chaos rather than escape it.
Some days, it worked.
Other days, she faltered.
Once, she froze again — only for a second.
Enough to rattle her.
That night, Khairul couldn't sleep.
He replayed her hesitation.
Her frustration.
Her refusal to slow down.
Am I helping her stabilize… or accelerating her exposure?
He didn't know.
And that frightened him more than any threat he could name.
Coach Azrul noticed the change too.
"Hidayah," he said after one session, "you're fighting yourself."
She bowed slightly.
"I'm trying to remove weakness."
"Then you misunderstanding strength."
She met his gaze.
"Strength isn't constant awareness," he continued. "It's knowing when to let go."
The words stayed with her.
Unsettling.
Necessary.
By the end of the week, Hidayah stood on the mat again.
Three opponents.
No instruction.
No signal.
She breathed.
Did not anticipate.
Did not rush.
She listened.
The strikes came.
She moved.
Not perfectly.
But she stayed standing.
When it ended, Coach Azrul nodded.
Not approval.
Acknowledgment.
Progress.
That night, Khairul watched her train quietly.
She was calmer.
Still driven.
But grounded.
He felt something loosen in his chest.
Not relief.
Caution.
Because the sharper she became, the more visible she would be.
And the world had already shown them both what visibility could cost.