Michael blended in perfectly.
That, more than anything, unsettled him.
The new semester began the way semesters always did — shuffled seating, unfamiliar faces, people introducing themselves with easy smiles and casual questions. Chairs scraped softly against tiled floors. Someone laughed too loudly near the back of the lecture hall. Someone else dropped a pen and muttered an apology as it rolled away.
No one looked at him twice.
No one hesitated.
No one knew.
"Hey, is this seat taken?"
Michael glanced up. A guy with a backpack slung low over one shoulder stood there, already half-sitting, polite but impatient in the way of people who expected permission to be a formality.
Michael shook his head. "Go ahead."
The guy grinned, settling in. "Thanks, man."
Normal.
Too normal.
The lecturer entered moments later, clearing his throat and launching straight into the module overview. Expectations. Assessments. Attendance. The tone was brisk, efficient, practiced.
New voice.
New cadence.
New expectations.
Michael listened with half an ear, pen moving just enough to look engaged. His gaze drifted across the room instead — rows of unfamiliar faces, bodies leaning forward or slouched back, attention already splintering.
This was supposed to feel like a reset.
Instead, it felt like camouflage.
He could almost believe — if he let himself — that nothing had happened. That the suspension letter hadn't arrived months ago in an email stripped of emotion. That his name hadn't been removed from the rugby roster with quiet finality. That his access card hadn't stopped working at the gym overnight.
Rugby had been the only thing that made sense.
The structure.
The hierarchy.
The sanctioned aggression.
His body had been trained for collision, for endurance, for pushing past pain because someone demanded it of him. That discipline hadn't vanished just because permission had been revoked.
"You okay?"
Michael blinked.
The guy beside him leaned closer. "You zoned out."
"I'm fine," Michael replied automatically.
The words came out smooth, unremarkable.
The lecturer's eyes flicked toward him then — brief, assessing, unreadable.
Michael caught it.
That was the difference.
Everyone else saw a returning student.
The facilitator saw a file.
Not suspicion. Not accusation. Just awareness — the kind that waited patiently for confirmation.
Michael looked back down at his notes.
Camouflage worked best when you didn't test it.
He walked the campus later with no destination in mind.
It was easier this way — drifting, unremarkable, just another student killing time between classes. He passed groups sprawled on benches, couples walking shoulder to shoulder, seniors complaining about deadlines, freshmen clutching printed schedules like lifelines.
The campus had resumed its rhythm.
A collective exhale after the break.
This was the life he had lost.
And regained.
But not completely.
He avoided the places he knew better than to linger around — the gym entrance, the team offices, the locker rooms. Still, the sports complex came into view before he realised he was heading that way.
Muscle memory.
Michael stopped.
The field was alive with motion — boots thudding against turf, bodies colliding with controlled force, voices calling out drills. A whistle cut through the air. Laughter followed. Someone cursed, then laughed harder.
He stood at the fence, hands in his pockets, jaw tight.
He could name every drill without thinking.
He could feel them in his body.
The ache came sharp and familiar.
He knew better than to linger.
So he turned away.
That was when he saw her.
Hidayah crossed the open walkway ahead, bag slung over one shoulder, Jasmine beside her. They were mid-conversation — Jasmine animated, hands moving as she spoke, Hidayah smiling softly in response, eyes attentive, posture relaxed but grounded.
She looked—
Steady.
Protected.
Michael slowed without meaning to.
She didn't look around.
Didn't sense him.
Didn't react.
The absence hit harder than any rejection.
Once, she would have noticed.
Once, she would have adjusted her pace.
Now she disappeared into the crowd, swallowed by movement and noise.
Normal.
Her life had gone back to normal.
His hadn't.
Michael forced himself to move, to rejoin the stream of students flowing past. Camouflage, he reminded himself.
Hidayah felt it in fragments.
Not fear — not yet — but awareness.
The semester had begun smoothly. New modules settled into place. Lecturers were competent, predictable. Coursework felt manageable. Routine anchored her days again.
Silat training resumed with its familiar discipline — repetition, precision, the quiet insistence on presence. Archery felt grounding again: breath, posture, release.
Her father fetched her when promised.
Jasmine stayed close.
Khairul checked in without hovering.
Safe.
And yet—
She caught herself scanning reflections in glass windows. Pausing half a second longer before stepping into open spaces. Adjusting her walking pace instinctively.
Nothing happened.
That was the problem.
During lunch, she sat across from Jasmine, absently stirring her drink.
"You okay?" Jasmine asked, already watching her closely.
Hidayah nodded. "Yeah. Just… tired."
It wasn't a lie.
But it wasn't the whole truth either.
She couldn't explain the sensation — like a shadow that only appeared when she wasn't looking directly at it.
That night, she messaged Khairul.
Everything's okay. Just… feels strange being back in full swing again.
His reply came quickly.
Strange doesn't mean bad. Just stay aware. I'm here.
She read it twice before putting her phone down.
Aware.
She could do that.
Michael sat on his bed that night, room dark except for the glow of his phone.
Campus forums.
Timetables.
Old rugby group chats he no longer belonged to.
He scrolled without purpose, pausing occasionally on names he recognised, photos of people still moving forward without him.
They had taken things from him — structure, identity, proximity.
But they hadn't taken his memory.
Or his patience.
New semester.
New faces.
New rules.
Rules could be learned.
And patience…
Patience was something he was very good at.
Days passed.
Michael adjusted. He arrived early. Sat where he wouldn't draw attention. Asked questions just often enough to appear engaged. Smiled when spoken to. Stayed forgettable.
No warnings came.
No interventions.
Good.
From a distance, he watched.
Hidayah moved through campus with deliberate calm. She was rarely alone — Jasmine often at her side, sometimes other classmates. Occasionally, a familiar tall figure walked with them for a stretch before peeling away.
Khairul.
Michael noted the way Khairul positioned himself — not possessive, not obvious. Always slightly offset. Always scanning without seeming to.
Trained.
Michael didn't approach.
Not yet.
Hidayah felt the shift before she could name it.
Not escalation.
Compression.
Spaces felt narrower. Time felt stretched. She noticed patterns where before there had been only background noise — the same figure in different places, always distant enough to dismiss.
She didn't panic.
She documented.
Dates. Times. Locations.
Awareness, not fear.
One evening, after training, Khairul walked with her partway to the bus stop.
"You've been quieter," he observed.
"Just thinking," she replied.
He didn't push. "Tell me if thinking turns into something else."
She nodded.
Later that night, she added another note to her phone.
Saw him again. Didn't approach. Didn't break rules.
The restraint unsettled her more than aggression would have.
Michael smiled faintly at his reflection one night.
He was doing well.
Invisible.
Contained.
And somewhere, deep beneath that control, a certainty remained — slow, patient, unyielding.
Camouflage was only the first phase.