The phone rang while Hidayah was still in class.
It was not loud—just a short, insistent vibration against the smooth surface of her desk. The sound cut cleanly through the low hum of laptops and murmured discussion, sharp enough that she felt it more than heard it. She didn't reach for it at first, letting her attention remain on the facilitator's calm, steady voice. Nothing in the room suggested urgency. Nothing suggested danger.
A second vibration buzzed through the desk.
Her eyes flicked to the corner of the room again, catching the slight motion of the instructor's hands as he gestured to a diagram. Still ordinary. Still safe.
A third vibration followed almost immediately, persistent and deliberate.
Her chest tightened—not sharply, not panicked, but with the familiar, unwelcome compression she had learned to recognise. It didn't scream run, only be careful. She slid the phone into her palm and stood quietly.
"Sir," she said, voice even. "May I step out for a call?"
The facilitator looked up, took in her composed expression, and nodded without question. "Go ahead."
She stepped into the corridor, the glass door closing softly behind her. The campus hallway was bright, busy in that late-morning way—students passing, backpacks swinging, laughter spilling down from the stairwell, the faint smell of coffee drifting from a nearby vending machine. Everything ordinary. Normal.
She lifted the phone to her ear.
"Hello?"
A pause. Long enough to establish authority.
"Am I speaking with Hidayah Kamari?"
"Yes," she replied. "Speaking."
"This is Officer Shahrizal Othman from the Ang Mo Kio Police Division."
Her spine straightened instinctively. The name carried weight, but no shock. She had rehearsed responses in her mind for months now. Clarity was her shield.
"I'm calling in relation to the Personal Protection Order currently in effect involving Michael Ng Kok Hui."
The words landed, deliberate, heavy.
"I'm currently in class," she said calmly. "Is this urgent?"
"Yes," the officer replied, measured, firm. "We need to speak with you today. We've received information indicating a breach of conditions, and we are taking immediate action."
Her fingers curled lightly around the phone.
"What kind of action?" she asked, voice steady.
"We are dispatching officers to Mr Ng's residence now to bring him to the station," Officer Shahrizal explained. "Separately, we will need to speak to you in person. Is there a staff office on campus where you can wait?"
She exhaled slowly, letting the tension in her shoulders ease fractionally. "Yes."
"Good. Someone from your school will escort you. You are not in trouble," he added. "We just need your statement and cooperation."
"I understand," she replied.
"One more thing," he continued. "We may request that you meet Mr Ng later today at the station. This would be voluntary, and only if you consent. You will not be alone. We will explain further."
Hidayah closed her eyes briefly, steadying her pulse. Her mind scanned possibilities, outcomes, contingencies—not with panic, but with the quiet precision of someone who had rebuilt herself around awareness.
"Okay," she said. "I understand."
"We'll be in touch again shortly," Officer Shahrizal said. The line went dead.
Hidayah stood there for a long moment, phone still pressed to her ear, the hallway moving around her as if she were inside glass. Voices passed, footsteps echoed, the hum of normal life continued, but she was separated from it now by something heavier.
Not fear. Not panic.
Something final.
It settled across her shoulders like a cold, deliberate weight. She wasn't unprepared. She wasn't naïve. But she felt the shift—the transition from vigilance to active reckoning. The world outside remained ordinary, but inside, everything had changed.
And for the first time in months, Hidayah knew that nothing could return to the previous rhythm.
Not yet. Not until the day ended, and until the breach was fully addressed.
----------
Michael Ng Kok Hui did not resist when the police arrived at his house.
That was what unsettled his mother the most.
The knock came mid-morning. Her first thought had been a delivery. Then the officers introduced themselves.
Michael opened the door calmly, hair still damp from a hurried shower. His eyes were clear, focused, unnervingly steady, as if he had been expecting them. He wore no expression of fear, no flicker of surprise, only the faint, polite acknowledgment of their presence.
"I know," he said simply, stepping aside to let them in.
The lead officer, a tall man with a trimmed mustache, exchanged a quick glance with his partner, then asked, "You know what this is about?"
"Yes," Michael replied, voice measured. "She called you."
"No," the officer corrected, the words clipped, precise. "She did not."
Michael smiled faintly, a curve of lips that didn't reach his eyes. "That's okay," he said. "She doesn't remember yet." The statement hung in the room, casual and disturbing. His mother froze mid-step, her hand still resting on the edge of the dining table, eyes wide.
The officers gestured toward the living room. "Please sit," the lead said.
Michael complied immediately, folding his hands neatly in his lap, posture straight.
"Shoes," the other officer said, nodding toward the doorway.
Michael slipped on his sneakers without hesitation. Every movement was deliberate, calm, controlled. There was no resistance, no argument, no attempt to manipulate. And that precision—the absence of chaos—made the tension in the room almost palpable.
As they guided him toward the door, his mother remained frozen, clutching the furniture for support. "Kok Hui?" she whispered, voice trembling. "What's happening?"
He paused in the doorway, turning slightly, voice soft but deliberate. "She's confused," he said gently, almost soothingly, "but she'll come back."
His mother's knees weakened slightly. He did not look back again. He did not falter.
Step by step, he walked with the officers down the path to the car. The sunlight fell unevenly across the driveway, glinting off the polished tiles, catching in the damp strands of his hair. His calmness was a quiet assertion of control; the officers moved around him carefully, aware of the history behind the procedural visit.
The neighbor's cat slinked past, oblivious. Cars drove by, a child's laughter echoed from the street. Michael's mother stayed at the threshold, hands gripping the table, trying to ground herself. He was leaving, and yet the weight of his presence lingered like a shadow she couldn't dispel.
Inside the squad car, Michael settled into the seat without complaint. He did not fidget. He did not protest. The officers exchanged another glance, one of those subtle signals born from experience—this was compliance, yes, but the kind that was predicated on something else entirely. Patience. Calculation. Anticipation.
Michael's eyes were fixed on the window, distant, unreadable. Quietly, deliberately, he seemed to fold the moment around himself. Calm. Polite. And unsettlingly certain.
And his mother knew, standing in the doorway, that the boy she had raised—and feared she no longer recognized—was still very much himself.
She closed the door slowly, leaving the empty hallway behind, the faint echo of sneakers on tile lingering longer than expected.
------------
When Officer Shahrizal called, Khairul was mid-training.
The gym smelled of sweat and leather. The heavy bag swayed gently from his last strike, still vibrating from impact. His gloves were removed, towel draped around his neck, breath steadying, core warm from exertion. He was wiping the sweat from his face when his phone buzzed in the locker cubby—a short, insistent vibration. Unknown number.
He didn't hesitate. He answered immediately.
"Yes?"
"Mr Khairul Asri?"
"Yes."
"This is Officer Shahrizal Othman from Ang Mo Kio Police Division. I'm calling regarding Ms. Hidayah Kamari, as we were unable to reach her father."
Khairul's hand tightened around the towel. His posture shifted, subtle but immediate, ready to move. "What happened?"
"She's safe," the officer said quickly, his tone clipped but firm. "However, there has been a breach of the PPO conditions by Michael Ng Kok Hui. We've taken him into custody."
Khairul's jaw tightened. The gym's echoes—the bag, the ropes, his own controlled breathing—felt irrelevant now. His mind was already running through timelines, logistics, contingencies.
"Where is Ms. Hidayah now?" he asked, voice measured but sharp.
"She's on campus. We're arranging for her to come to the Student Affairs Office. We'd like to ask if you can be present later at the station, if she agrees to meet him."
"I'll be there," Khairul said without hesitation. "Escort her safely. Don't let her make any unnecessary movements. Keep her informed but calm."
"Understood," Officer Shahrizal replied.
Khairul didn't wait for pleasantries. He hung up, grabbed his keys, and left without looking back. His gym bag was slung over one shoulder, water bottle in hand. Every step to the car was precise, purposeful, rehearsed. Traffic lights, turns, and intersections mapped in his mind with the same meticulous attention he gave to training drills.
The city moved around him, but Khairul didn't see it. He tracked time, distance, and predictable variables: which MRT lines were busy this hour, which roads cleared fastest, how long it would take him to reach the campus office, then the station.
Every call he had rehearsed before—the dispatcher, the officers, the eventual meeting—played through his mind, not in panic, but in methodical sequencing. Contingencies layered: if she hesitated, if she was upset, if Michael attempted manipulation in any form. Each scenario already had a corresponding course of action, no hesitation permitted.
By the time he reached his car, he had stripped the situation down to essentials: Hidayah was safe, Michael was in custody, and he would ensure that safety remained uncompromised.
He started the engine and drove. The hum of the tires on the road, the pulse of traffic signals, the blur of streetlights—they all receded into the background. Focused. Controlled. Purposeful.
He would arrive. He would wait. He would act only when required, quietly, efficiently, without imposing more fear or weight than necessary. Protection, he reminded himself, was a discipline, not a reaction.
And as the city lights flickered past his windshield, Khairul knew, with absolute clarity, that everything he had trained for—every calculation, every measured breath—was about to be tested again.
----------
They came for Hidayah midway through class.
A staff member appeared at the glass door and quietly gestured to the facilitator. The facilitator nodded, his expression calm but alert, and turned toward her.
"Hidayah," he said gently. "The staff is here for you. You may leave for the day."
No explanation. No questions.
She packed her things deliberately, her movements controlled, familiar. Laptop bag slung over her shoulder, notebooks stacked neatly. She didn't rush. She didn't flinch. She followed the staff member into the corridor, the soft click of her shoes on the polished floor echoing in the quiet hall.
The walk to the Student Affairs Office felt longer than usual. Every step was measured. Every turn was deliberate. She noticed the usual sounds—the faint hum of fluorescent lights, distant chatter of other students—but everything seemed muted, distant, as if the world had been pressed back to make room for the tension tightening around her.
Inside, the office was quiet—too quiet. A glass of water sat on the table, condensation forming tiny beads on its surface. The blinds were half-drawn, casting slanted bands of afternoon light across the pale carpet. Hidayah perched on the edge of the chair, fingers brushing the notebook still in her lap, waiting.
The door opened again. She didn't look up immediately.
She felt him before she saw him.
Khairul crossed the room in three deliberate steps. There was no flourish, no words, only the certainty of presence. He stopped in front of her, and without hesitation, wrapped his arms around her.
She pressed her forehead into his chest, breathing in a way she hadn't allowed herself all day. Not a sob. Not a cry. Just the release of all the taut energy she had carried—coiled, alert, disciplined. His embrace was firm but unhurried, a weight that grounded without pressing, a quiet assertion that she was safe.
He held her in that space until her shoulders uncurled slightly, until the tension in her spine relaxed enough for her to breathe evenly again. When he finally stepped back, his hand remained on her wrist, an anchoring presence, light but insistently steady.
"I'm here," he said quietly, voice low and unshakable.
She nodded once. Her lips pressed together, a faint exhale escaping. She didn't have to speak; she didn't have to explain. The grounding weight of his presence filled the gap words would have left.
Khairul scanned the room subtly, eyes catching the half-drawn blinds, the glass of water, the empty chairs. He didn't intrude, didn't comment. He simply stood close, silent, ready.
Hidayah felt it—the certainty of protection, the boundary that separated fear from security. Even in this strange, controlled space, she was allowed to feel steady, even as the edges of unease lingered in the corners.
Minutes passed without speaking. Only the soft, synchronized rhythm of breathing marked the time. Then, slowly, Hidayah shifted her weight, easing her fingers from her notebook, uncurling from his hold just enough to meet his gaze.
"I'm… okay," she said softly.
Khairul gave the faintest nod, hand still resting lightly against hers. No questions. No probing. Only the quiet assurance of presence.
She exhaled fully, finally letting the tightness in her chest ease. For now, at least, the world outside could wait.
----------
The car ride from campus to the police station was silent, almost painfully so. Hidayah kept her hands folded in her lap, eyes fixed on the edge of the seat, observing the passing streetlights without really seeing them. Each turn, each brake, each faint hum of tires on asphalt felt exaggerated, like the world itself was holding its breath.
Khairul drove steadily, hands firm on the wheel, jaw tight. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. His presence alone grounded her. Every so often, his eyes flicked to the rearview mirror—not for curiosity, but to maintain awareness. To ensure she had arrived safely, unfrightened.
The station was sterile. White walls, fluorescent lights, the faint smell of disinfectant mingled with the cold tang of metal. Hidayah's pulse quickened as she stepped inside, the echo of her shoes against the tiled floor loud enough to sound accusatory. The staff at the front desk guided her quietly, efficiently, leading her to a room where a glass of water waited on a low table, condensation dripping slowly, each drop sounding like a clock ticking in her ears.
She sat, fingers drumming lightly against her bag. The silence was thick, unnatural, heavy with anticipation. She didn't know if it was the formal air of the police station or the way the room seemed to contract around her.
Then the door opened.
He stepped in.
Michael Ng Kok Hui.
Calm. Composed. Impossibly calm. His presence didn't erupt like a storm—it was a cold current, sliding over the edges of the room and curling around her spine. He didn't glance at her. He didn't move quickly. He simply walked, measured steps, like a predator respecting ritual before the hunt.
Hidayah felt him before she saw him fully. The instinct she had trained herself to trust whispered sharp warnings: this was wrong. This was more than wrong. She straightened in her chair, muscles coiled, aware of every inch of the space between them.
Khairul moved slightly, a subtle shift between them, one step closer, protective, silent. His hand rested lightly on the seatback, a grounding presence, a quiet barrier. His eyes scanned Michael, noting posture, tension, subtle cues, ready to respond if anything moved beyond words.
Michael stopped a few feet from her. He looked at her, finally, and that smile—half polite, half predatory—spread slowly, deliberately. Not a broad grin, not laughter, just enough to unbalance her. It didn't reach his eyes, which remained sharp, focused, calculating.
"You came for me," he said softly, voice calm but layered with meaning.
Hidayah's throat tightened. She swallowed, forcing her voice into neutrality. "I did what I had to do."
He tilted his head. "Yes… I know." His gaze lingered on her hands, resting in her lap, unadorned, innocent. And yet he saw—everything. Timing. Habits. Tensions she hadn't realised she carried. He saw them and stored them, memorised them.
Khairul's presence became a shield, subtle but firm. He didn't speak, didn't confront. He simply existed between them, a reminder of boundaries she did not need to articulate aloud.
Michael's smile widened fractionally. "You try so hard to appear calm. Do you think it fools anyone?"
Hidayah's pulse raced, but her voice stayed even. "It isn't trying to fool anyone."
"Interesting," he said, leaning slightly forward—not threatening, just precise, measured, intentional. His proximity was an assertion. "You move through life as if nothing can touch you… but you know, don't you? The line can shift."
She stiffened imperceptibly. The words landed, subtle, almost abstract—but weighted with menace.
Khairul's hand flexed slightly on the seatback. His posture shifted minutely. No sound. No motion beyond the controlled, alert readiness of a man who knew when seconds mattered more than words.
Michael continued, calm, patient, almost conversational. "I watch. I wait. I'm always… present. You can't see it all the time, but it doesn't mean I'm not."
Hidayah's stomach tightened. Every lesson, every instinct she had built in the months since his expulsion screamed at her—he was not gone. He never had been. The safety she had fought to create felt suddenly porous. The walls, the routines, the discipline—none of it could erase him.
Khairul's eyes met hers briefly. No words. Only a shared understanding: the moment required endurance, not confrontation. Michael's presence was a test. The room's sterile walls were a stage for tension, and neither Hidayah nor Khairul would break the rules, and would not give him leverage.
Michael's smile finally faded, replaced by an unreadable neutrality. "I'll wait," he said softly, voice almost bored. "Time doesn't matter. It never has."
Then he turned. The officers guiding him were silent, practiced, and yet the chill he left behind lingered in the air, settling into the edges of the room like smoke.
Hidayah exhaled slowly, chest tight, shoulders trembling imperceptibly. Khairul squeezed her wrist lightly—an anchor in a storm that had barely touched the surface.
"Are you okay?" he asked, voice quiet, low, firm.
She nodded. "I… will be."
Outside, the city continued as usual. Inside, the weight of obsession had passed through the room, leaving only its echo—a reminder that vigilance was never optional.
------------
They didn't talk on the drive home.
The city lights stretched past the windows, long ribbons of gold and white smeared across the black asphalt. Familiar streets felt unfamiliar, the blocks stretching farther than they should. Even the low hum of the tires against the pavement seemed amplified, carrying a weight that had nothing to do with the car itself. Hidayah's hands rested lightly in her lap, fingertips brushing the edge of her bag, steady on the surface yet trembling beneath a layer of tension she didn't acknowledge aloud.
Khairul drove steadily, eyes fixed ahead but aware of everything else—the faint sway of the car, the rhythm of her breathing, the subtle tension in her shoulders. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. Words would have been intrusion. Silence, in this moment, was safety. Every second he remained quiet was a signal that the day, the encounter, the storm, was over—at least for now.
When they turned onto her block, the street seemed smaller somehow. Dim lamplights flickered along the sidewalk, a thin wind moving through the leaves. Khairul parked near the curb, engine clicking off, leaving a sudden, absolute quiet that pressed into the car like water in a jar. Hidayah didn't move immediately. Her gaze fixed on a point in the distance, somewhere between the curb and the low shrubs lining the walkway to her apartment.
He reached across the center console, fingers brushing hers. Gentle. Deliberate. Grounding.
"You did nothing wrong," he said. His voice was quiet, low enough that it felt like it belonged only to the two of them. Not comforting. Not placating. Just stating fact. Solid, immovable.
She nodded, but didn't speak. Her chest rose and fell, slow but still deliberate, a rhythm of controlled release. She didn't cry. Didn't flinch. But the tight coil inside her—always present in moments like these—loosened fractionally.
"I know," she murmured finally, almost inaudible.
Khairul didn't let go. Not yet. His other hand rested lightly on the wheel, but he leaned slightly toward her, maintaining a subtle presence that said, without words, I'm here. I am aware. You are safe now.
They sat like that for a moment, the quiet humming of the parked car around them. Beyond the windshield, the street was empty. Beyond the walls of the car, the world could have continued in oblivious motion. Inside, everything had been stripped down to essentials: presence, grounding, acknowledgment.
Finally, he opened the door and stepped out. The night air was cool, carrying a faint tang of wet asphalt and distant exhaust. Hidayah followed slowly, her movements deliberate. Every step was measured, careful, as though she was testing the ground beneath her feet for stability.
Khairul matched her pace, hand lightly brushing her elbow as they moved toward her building. Not touching to guide. Not touching to restrain. Touch as assurance.
At the door, she paused. The key slid into the lock without hesitation, but she stopped just short of stepping inside. She turned to him, eyes meeting his briefly.
She moved forward and hugged him again. This time it was shorter. Firmer. No fragility. No hesitation.
"I'm okay," she whispered, voice low and steady.
"I know," he replied, almost a growl in its calmness. "I'll stay close anyway."
She smiled faintly. It wasn't a wide smile. It wasn't dramatic. It was a fraction of relief, the smallest edge of release that had been missing all day. For the first time since the encounter began, since Michael's presence had fractured the routine and the quiet, something in her felt real again.
He stepped back, giving her space but keeping his hand lightly on the edge of the doorframe—a boundary, a silent promise, a line drawn without words. Hidayah drew a slow breath, feeling the faint tremor in her chest begin to settle.
The hallway inside smelled faintly of cleaning solution and home—warm and ordinary. The small apartment, normally comforting, seemed even more so in the aftermath, as if the ordinary had reclaimed its space. She moved inside, placing her bag down carefully, running a hand along the counter as she exhaled fully, the tension of the day rolling off in slow, deliberate layers.
Khairul lingered by the door. Not for confrontation. Not for insistence. But for assurance. Presence. Vigilance without intrusion. She didn't have to speak to acknowledge it. He simply existed there, a quiet shadow at the edge of the space, holding it steady until she decided the world outside could remain just out of reach for a little longer.
Hidayah turned slightly, catching his gaze, and nodded—a small, deliberate gesture. No words. Enough. He responded with the faintest of nods in return, his posture still calm, controlled, unwavering.
She moved toward the kitchen, poured herself a glass of water, and drank slowly, each swallow deliberate. Khairul stayed near the door, eyes scanning lightly, listening to the quiet sounds of her settling, noting the rhythm of her breath, the subtle shifts in posture, the micro-movements of relaxation.
Minutes passed in silence. The only sound was the gentle clink of glass on countertop, a faint exhale, the hum of the refrigerator. The tension, the unease, the unspoken weight of everything that had happened—the presence of Michael, the encounter at the station, the controlled chaos of anticipation—all began to diffuse slowly, layered onto the background of normalcy.
Finally, Khairul stepped back, moving toward the hallway, leaving her space to breathe fully, yet close enough that she knew he had not left.
"You'll be okay," he said softly. Not a warning. Not reassurance. Statement. Fact. Observation. Presence.
Hidayah smiled again, slightly more confidently. "I know."
And for the first time that night, in the small apartment filled with ordinary sounds, ordinary smells, ordinary light, the line between fear and control, between vigilance and intrusion, between past and present, felt drawn clearly. She was safe. She was steady. And for now, she could simply be.
The world outside—the city, the streets, the lingering shadow of obsession—remained in motion, but inside, there was a pause. A quiet, deliberate pause.
Khairul finally left the doorway, closing it softly behind him. The lock clicked. Alone, Hidayah leaned against the doorframe, breathing fully, allowing the tension to melt further, muscles unwinding in a slow, conscious rhythm. She wasn't shaken. She wasn't broken. Not this time.
The faint smile lingered, the sense of release, of presence, of protection that didn't suffocate, carried with her. She had survived. She had endured. And she knew, deep down, that whatever came next, she wouldn't face it unprepared.
And somewhere outside, in a quiet space she could not see, Khairul remained alert, adjusting, calculating, holding the line without interference. Presence, vigilance, readiness—quiet, invisible, necessary. The city moved on. They moved on. But the shadow of awareness remained. Always.