Michael learned quickly where not to linger.
He didn't hover near the sports complex.
Didn't circle the silat hall.
Didn't cross paths too often.
That would be obvious.
Obvious was sloppy. Sloppy drew attention. Attention invited intervention.
Instead, he learned rhythm.
Not just hers — everyone's.
He watched how the campus breathed through the day: the swell of bodies between lectures, the lull after lunch, the way students instinctively chose shade over sun even if it meant walking farther. He learned where people naturally slowed, where they stopped without realising it, where waiting felt normal.
Timetables helped, but they were only a framework.
Movement told the real story.
Michael positioned himself where being present meant nothing — a bench near a vending machine, the edge of a planter where people paused to retie shoes, the open space near the library entrance where students lingered while checking messages or waiting for friends.
Normal places.
Safe places.
He let Hidayah pass him twice that week without reacting.
The first time, she didn't notice him at all.
She walked with Jasmine, steps even, posture relaxed but grounded. Michael watched the line of her shoulders, the way her weight shifted as she walked. She no longer drifted. Every step had intention.
That was new.
The second time—
She slowed.
Not enough to be obvious. Not enough to break stride. Just enough to register.
Michael felt it immediately — a tightening behind his sternum, sharp and satisfying.
She didn't look at him. Didn't turn her head. But her shoulder line adjusted by a fraction. Her grip on her bag tightened almost imperceptibly.
Instinct.
Good.
He stayed where he was, phone loose in his hand, posture casual. He scrolled without seeing the screen.
She walked on.
Michael exhaled slowly.
Close enough.
That night, he lay awake longer than usual, replaying the moment with clinical precision. The exact angle of her shoulders. The timing of her adjustment. The way she'd absorbed him without acknowledging him.
She was learning.
So was he.
Hidayah didn't tell Jasmine.
Not yet.
There was nothing she could point to. No repeated sightings she could list. No moment she could isolate and say this is it. Just a low, persistent awareness that followed her through the day like a pressure change she couldn't escape.
Her body noticed before her mind did.
She adjusted routes without consciously deciding to. Took brighter paths even when they were longer. Chose seats where she could see entrances. Sat with her back to walls. Walked closer to groups even when she didn't join their conversations.
It didn't feel like fear.
Fear froze.
This felt like alignment.
During silat, Coach Azrul noticed first.
"You're sharper today," he said, watching her stance as she settled into position. "More attentive."
Hidayah wiped sweat from her brow, chest rising steadily. "I feel… more alert."
"That's not a bad thing," he replied. "But don't let it turn into tension."
She nodded.
She understood the difference now.
Fear locked the joints. Awareness let the body flow.
She adjusted her stance, sinking her weight, breath steady.
Coach Azrul watched her for a long moment, then moved on without comment.
Michael began mapping her without recording anything.
No notes.
No photo
No messages saved.
Memory was cleaner.
He learned her patterns by absence as much as presence — where she didn't go, when she avoided certain paths, how her routines tightened after dusk. He noticed how often she was accompanied now, how rarely she was alone for long stretches.
He noticed the man who walked with her sometimes.
Khairul.
Michael catalogued him carefully.
Not aggressive.
Not possessive.
Always positioned slightly offset, slightly ahead or behind depending on terrain.
Protective without display.
Michael hated him for that.
Not because of what he did — but because of what he represented.
Containment.
Khairul texted just before sunset.
I'm downstairs.
Hidayah grabbed her jacket and headed out. The lift ride down felt routine now — a quiet reset before movement. The mirrored walls reflected her posture back at her: upright, calm, alert without rigidity.
Khairul waited beside his car, sleeves rolled up. When he saw her, something in his stance softened — not obvious, just a subtle release.
"You ready?" he asked.
"Yeah."
The drive to Chong Pang was quiet. Radio low. Streetlights blurring past. When they stopped at a red light, he glanced at her.
"You okay today?"
She nodded. "Just… listening more."
He hummed softly. Understanding without interrogation.
At the gym, they warmed up together. Controlled movement. Breath matching breath. When he corrected her posture, his hands were firm, respectful, steady.
"You're compensating," he murmured, adjusting her shoulder line. "Too much outward attention."
"I didn't realise."
"That's because you're listening out instead of in."
She met his gaze briefly.
"You always notice."
"I notice you," he replied simply.
The words settled between them, heavy with restraint.
After training, they sat on the steps, sharing water. The night air was cool.
"I've been feeling watched," she said quietly.
Khairul didn't tense. Didn't demand details.
"Recently?" he asked.
She nodded. "Not enough to say it's him. Just enough to trust my body."
"That's good," he said. "Your instincts kept you alive before."
She looked at him. "You don't think I'm imagining it?"
"No," he said without hesitation. "I think you're listening properly."
Something warm unfurled in her chest.
Not safety.
Strength.
Michael noticed the shift in her two days later.
Not in her face. In her spacing.
She positioned herself more efficiently now — choosing seats with lines of sight, pausing half a second longer at intersections, walking with a subtle readiness that hadn't been there before.
She was aware of him.
Not consciously. But enough.
That awareness didn't deter him. It validated him. He tested proximity carefully.
Once, he stood closer than before near the library entrance — not close enough to invade, just close enough to register. She stiffened for half a second, then flowed past.
Good control.
Once, he crossed behind her in a crowd, not touching, not brushing. She altered her path immediately, creating space without breaking stride.
Better.
Each adjustment taught him more.
The facilitator noticed Michael's patterns by the third week.
Not because he broke rules.
Because he didn't.
Attendance perfect. Submissions early. Participation measured. No social overreach.
Too precise.
During one lecture, the facilitator let his gaze linger.
Michael looked up and met it.
Neutral. Polite. Blank.
After class, Michael lingered near the exit, pretending to scroll.
Hidayah passed by minutes later, laughing softly with Jasmine.
Michael didn't move.
Didn't look.
The facilitator watched him watch nothing.
And wrote a note anyway.
Hidayah's routines tightened further.
Morning rides with her father.
Study sessions with Jasmine.
Training that left her body feeling capable.
Khairul became a quiet constant — messages that didn't demand replies.
Eat properly.
Text me when you reach.
How was training?
Small things.
But they stacked.
One evening, after he drove her home, she paused before opening the door.
"What?" he asked gently.
She shook her head. "Nothing. Just… had the urge to pause."
He waited.
After a moment, she smiled faintly. "False alarm."
"False alarms mean your system works," he said. "No need to apologise."
She laughed softly. "You're very calm."
"That's because I trust you," he replied. "And I trust myself to step in if needed."
She leaned in then, resting her forehead briefly against his shoulder.
Just a second.
Just enough.
He didn't move.
When she pulled back, his hand brushed hers, lingering a fraction longer than necessary.
Neither spoke.
Michael stood at the edge of campus as evening fell. Lights flickered on. Students streamed past.
He spotted her from afar.
Walking with Khairul.
Michael's jaw tightened.
Not yet.
Not here.
Not now.
But the distance between them felt smaller than yesterday.
And tomorrow—
Tomorrow, he would test it again.
Not by approaching.
By being closer.
By being unavoidable.