The call came on a Thursday morning.
Hidayah was halfway through her notes when her phone vibrated against the desk—sharp, insistent, cutting cleanly through the low murmur of the classroom. The sound alone made her chest tighten before she even looked at the screen. Unknown number.
For a moment, she stared at it as if not answering might keep whatever waited on the other side from becoming real.
Her mind, traitorously efficient, supplied its own answer anyway.
She closed her notebook carefully, as if sudden movement might shatter something fragile inside her, and raised her hand to excuse herself. The facilitator nodded without comment. She stepped into the corridor, where the air felt cooler, thinner, and somehow louder despite the quiet.
"Hello?"
"Am I speaking with Hidayah Kamari?"
"Yes," she replied, voice steady out of long practice. "Speaking."
"This is Station Inspector Shahrizal Othman from Ang Mo Kio Police Division. I'm calling in relation to the case involving Michael Ng Kok Hui."
The name still did that thing to her—an internal flinch, sharp and immediate, like touching something hot you thought had cooled. Her shoulders tensed. Her spine went straight.
But she didn't freeze.
"Yes, sir."
"We've completed the initial investigations following the breach of the Personal Protection Order. I'll need you to attend a short court direction hearing this afternoon. Your parents have already been informed."
Her fingers curled around the phone.
Court meant process.
Process meant decisions.
Decisions meant… uncertainty.
"Court… today?" she asked and hated the small crack that almost appeared in her voice.
"Yes. This is not a trial," the officer said calmly. "It's a procedural direction hearing. The court will be issuing further orders, including psychiatric directions. You won't be required to testify."
Psychiatric directions.
The words landed with a strange, double weight.
On one hand: relief. He was still contained. Still under watch. Still not simply walking free again like a bad administrative mistake.
On the other: the old, cold fear.
What if this was the part where they decided he was "stable enough"?
What if this was the part where doors quietly opened again?
She forced herself to breathe out slowly, evenly.
"I understand," she said.
After the call ended, she remained standing in the corridor, phone still pressed to her ear, listening to the hollow absence of sound. Around her, campus life continued—footsteps, distant laughter, the ordinary world proceeding as if nothing fragile were being balanced inside her chest.
She typed a message with steady fingers.
Officer called. Court direction today.
The reply came almost instantly.
I'm already on the way.
Only then did she realise her hands were shaking.
Not with panic.
With the effort of holding both relief and fear in the same breath.
The Shift
By early afternoon, Hidayah was seated in a small consultation room adjacent to the court building, her parents on either side of her.
The room was neutral in the way institutional spaces always were—white walls, grey chairs, and a framed notice outlining victim support services that looked as though it had been printed years ago and never updated. The air smelt faintly of disinfectant and old paper. There was no window. Just a fluorescent light that hummed softly overhead.
This wasn't the dramatic courtroom she'd seen on television. There were no raised voices, no wooden gavels, and no visible symbols of judgement.
Just process.
That, she was learning, was how real things were decided. Quietly. In rooms like this.
Her mother sat with her hands folded tightly in her lap. Her father's posture was still, but she could feel the tension in him the way you felt tension in a room before an argument—contained, but present. Hidayah herself sat straight-backed, fingers laced together, thumbs pressed against each other as if anchoring her hands in place.
When Inspector Shahrizal entered, a slim file tucked under his arm, she felt something in her chest tighten and then steady again.
He nodded once to Hidayah, then to her parents.
"I'll walk everyone through what will happen today," he said calmly, his voice even, practised without being cold. "This is a direction hearing, not a sentencing."
He took a seat opposite them and opened the file.
"Michael Ng Kok Hui has been formally charged with multiple breaches of a Personal Protection Order, as well as criminal intimidation under Section 503 of the Penal Code."
The words were formal. Heavy. Real.
Hidayah listened without moving. The name still carried weight, but it no longer knocked the breath out of her. It sat there now—something solid and unpleasant, but no longer shapeless.
"Based on the statements, prior reports, and the circumstances of the breach," Shahrizal continued, "the prosecution is seeking a remand order pending further assessment."
Her father's jaw tightened slightly.
"Due to his prior psychiatric history," the officer went on, "the court is ordering a forensic psychiatric assessment."
Her father frowned. "He's already been assessed before."
"Yes," Shahrizal said, nodding. "He was previously assessed at IMH and placed on conditional home leave. This new assessment is different."
He turned his gaze to Hidayah now. Not probing. Not intrusive. Direct.
"This assessment is not about treatment alone," he said. "It's to determine criminal responsibility, fitness to plead, and ongoing risk."
Something settled in her chest at that. Heavy, but solid.
So they weren't pretending this was new.
They weren't pretending this was just a misunderstanding, or a rough patch, or something that could be smoothed over with the right words and enough patience.
"This process will take time," Shahrizal added. "But in the meantime, he will not be released back into the community."
Her mother's shoulders sagged slightly at that, as if a breath she'd been holding for days finally found its way out.
"What about the PPO?" her mother asked quietly.
"It remains in full force," the officer replied. "In fact, the breach strengthens the case for stricter conditions."
Hidayah nodded slowly. She felt strangely calm, as if her body had decided that now was not the moment to fall apart.
"Will I have to see him?" she asked.
Shahrizal shook his head. "Not today. Possibly not at all, depending on how the case proceeds. If the court requires your presence at any stage, you will be informed well in advance. And you will not be alone."
She believed him.
That, more than anything, was new.
They went through practicalities next. Timelines. What to expect. Who would contact them. What to do if anything changed. The language was careful and precise, designed to leave as little room for uncertainty as possible.
Still, uncertainty lingered in the corners.
Because systems were made of people.
And people were never perfect.
When they stood to leave, Hidayah felt the strange dissonance of it—walking back out into daylight while something heavy and consequential continued unfolding in rooms she would not see.
Outside, the sun was bright. Too bright.
Cars moved. People talked. Someone laughed nearby.
The world had not paused.
But something had shifted.
For the first time, it felt as though the machinery of things—slow, imperfect, but real—was finally turning in the right direction.
She didn't feel victorious.
She felt… anchored.
And for now, that was enough.
Michael
Michael stood in a different room, wrists uncuffed now but still watched.
The room was small, deliberately plain. White walls. A table bolted to the floor. Two chairs. A camera in the corner that did not pretend to be discreet. He sat with his back straight, hands resting neatly on his thighs, posture careful in the way of someone who wanted to be seen as cooperative.
He looked calmer than he had in weeks.
That was what unsettled the psychiatrist observing him through the one-way glass—the absence of agitation, the stillness that didn't come from peace but from conviction. There was no restless leg, no pacing, no visible anxiety. He was not sedated. He was not resigned.
He was certain.
"They're finally listening," Michael murmured, mostly to himself.
The officer stationed by the wall did not respond.
In Michael's mind, the pieces had aligned.
The court. The assessment. The system stepping in at last.
They're going to understand, he told himself.
The thought had weight. Shape. A satisfying sense of inevitability.
They'll see that she just forgot.
He had always known this part would come. Not exactly like this, perhaps—he would have preferred a conversation, a proper chance to explain—but systems were clumsy things. They moved slowly. They needed structure. Paper. Process.
He could work with that.
He had learnt patience.
Patience, after all, was proof of growth. Someone had said that to him once in a room that smelt of antiseptic and old carpet. He had remembered it. He remembered most things that were useful.
The door opened. A different officer stepped in, holding a clipboard.
"Mr Ng," he said. "You've been remanded for further assessment. You'll be transferred to IMH under forensic observation."
Michael looked up and smiled faintly.
"That's fine," he said easily. "I've been there before."
The officer nodded, making a note.
"This time," he added, "there will be no home leave until the court decides otherwise."
Michael's smile did not change.
Inside, something adjusted.
Not disappointment.
Recalibration.
That's all.
He had not expected things to move quickly. That would have been unrealistic. Rushed things broke. This needed to be done properly. Cleanly. With everyone in agreement.
He had learnt, after all, that when you forced things, people resisted.
When you waited, they came around on their own.
He sat alone again after the officer left.
The room hummed softly with the sound of ventilation.
He let his mind move.
Hidayah.
He pictured her the way she looked when she wasn't trying to be strong. When she forgot to guard her expressions. When she laughed and tilted her head slightly without realising she was doing it.
She always forgot things when she was under stress.
That wasn't a flaw. It was just… how she coped.
She simplified.
She cut things away.
Sometimes, she cut away things that mattered.
Including him.
She doesn't remember yet, he told himself again, with the same calm certainty he used to tell himself that gravity existed, that mornings followed nights, that cause led to effect.
Memory wasn't a switch.
It was a process.
And processes could be guided.
He had tried to remind her gently. He had tried to be patient. He had tried to be present without pushing.
But other people interfered.
They always did.
They filled her head with words like "fear" and "danger" and "safety" and "boundaries", as if relationships were supposed to be negotiated like contracts.
As if history could be erased by paperwork.
As if connection could be nullified by a stamp and a signature.
He did not resent the system.
Not really.
The system was just… slow.
And slow things needed time.
That was fine.
Time was something he had plenty of now.
A memory surfaced, uninvited but welcome.
Rugby.
The field. The noise. The clarity of purpose.
Back then, things had been simple. You moved forward. You held your line. You didn't hesitate.
People liked him then.
They had followed him.
They had listened.
He had been visible.
Now, he was quieter.
But quiet was not the same as gone.
Quiet was… strategic.
He adjusted his posture slightly in the chair, aligning his back more comfortably against the hard surface.
They would ask him questions soon.
He would answer them.
Not too much.
Not too little.
He knew how these things worked.
He knew what they were looking for.
Insight. Remorse. Understanding.
He could provide all of that.
He wasn't lying, after all.
He did understand.
They just didn't understand him yet.
The door opened again. A man and a woman entered—plain clothes, professional faces, the kind that tried to look neutral and rarely succeeded.
"Mr Ng," the woman said. "We're just going to have a brief preliminary conversation before your transfer."
"Of course," Michael said politely.
They sat.
They asked how he was feeling.
"Fine," he said. And meant it.
They asked if he understood why he was here.
"Yes," he said. "There's been a misunderstanding."
They made notes.
They asked about Hidayah.
He did not tense.
He did not lean forward.
He kept his voice level.
"She's confused," he said. "She's been under a lot of stress. She tends to withdraw when she's overwhelmed."
"And you?" the man asked. "How do you respond to that?"
"I stay consistent," Michael replied. "Someone has to."
That was written down too.
They asked about the PPO.
He nodded.
"I know what it says," he said. "I didn't touch her. I didn't threaten her. I didn't hurt her."
"That's not the only condition," the woman said carefully.
"No," Michael agreed. "But context matters."
They exchanged a glance.
He saw it.
People always thought they were subtle.
After they left, he sat alone again.
Still calm.
Still certain.
IMH was not unfamiliar.
He knew the routines there. The schedules. The evaluations. The careful way people asked questions that weren't really questions.
This time would be different.
This time, the court was involved.
This time, there would be records.
This time, there would be conclusions.
They would look at everything.
At him.
At her.
At the history.
And history, when examined properly, always told the same story.
He closed his eyes briefly.
Not in prayer.
In rehearsal.
He imagined the future as a series of steps.
Assessment.
Reports.
Hearings.
Time.
Eventually, someone would say it.
"She's not afraid. She's confused."
Eventually, someone would look at the situation and realise that separation had not healed anything.
Eventually, someone would suggest what he had known all along.
That this was not a criminal problem.
It was a relational one.
And relationships could be… corrected.
When they came for him to transfer him, he stood smoothly.
He did not resist.
He did not ask questions.
He did not look back.
As they guided him down the corridor, he felt no fear.
Only purpose.
This is good, he thought.
This is finally moving.
Somewhere, Hidayah was probably telling herself this meant safety.
That this meant an ending.
He almost smiled.
Endings were just beginnings people didn't recognise yet.
And she had always been bad at recognising things.
But that was all right.
He had always been good at remembering for both of them.
Back in the Room
When the formalities concluded, Inspector Shahrizal returned to Hidayah and her parents. The corridor outside the consultation rooms had thinned out; the earlier hum of movement had settled into a quieter, more subdued rhythm. Somewhere nearby, a door closed softly. The building seemed to exhale.
"Michael will be remanded for assessment," he said. His voice was calm, measured, professional. "He will not be released pending the psychiatrist's report."
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then her mother reached for her hand, fingers closing around hers with a firmness that carried more meaning than any words. Hidayah realised only then how tightly she had been holding herself together. She let herself breathe.
"This doesn't mean the case is over," the officer added gently. "But it does mean there is immediate containment."
Containment.
The word felt clinical, almost impersonal. But as it settled in her chest, it took on a different shape. It meant doors that would not open. Distance that would be enforced. Time that would not be left to chance.
It meant she could sleep.
"What about the PPO?" her father asked, practical as always, but with an edge of something sharper beneath the calm.
"It remains in force," Shahrizal replied without hesitation. "Any further breach will be addressed immediately. He will not be in a position to contact her."
Hidayah nodded. The movement was small but deliberate.
Her mind felt strangely quiet, as if the part of her that was always listening for footsteps, always bracing for the next interruption, had been allowed—just for now—to stand down.
Thank you.
She didn't say it out loud. She didn't need to. The words existed anyway, in the way her shoulders finally lowered, in the way her mother's grip did not loosen, and in the way her father's posture eased by a fraction.
It wasn't an ending.
But it was, at last, a pause that felt like shelter.
Khairul
Khairul arrived later that evening, just after sunset, when the corridor lights had already switched on and the air outside the flat had cooled into that brief, gentle hour between day and night.
She heard his footsteps before the doorbell—steady, unhurried, unmistakable. When she opened the door, he didn't ask questions. Didn't scan her face for damage or search the room for signs of what had happened. He didn't try to fill the silence with concern or reassurance.
He just stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her.
The embrace was firm, steady, the kind that didn't demand anything from her. The kind that said, without words, you don't have to hold yourself up right now. It reminded her of the way someone anchors a boat—quietly, efficiently, without needing to announce it.
She let herself sink into him.
For a moment—just a moment—she allowed herself to feel small. Not helpless. Just… carried.
Her forehead rested against his shoulder. His hand was warm at the back of her neck, grounding in a way that bypassed thought entirely.
"They're doing a forensic assessment," she said quietly, the words muffled against his chest.
He nodded, chin resting lightly against her hair. She felt the movement more than saw it.
"That's good," he said.
She hesitated, then added, "He's been assessed before. It didn't stop him."
Khairul's hold tightened, almost imperceptibly—but she felt it. Not with anger. With resolve.
"This time," he said, his voice lower now, steadier, "it's not about helping him feel better. It's about making sure he doesn't hurt you."
She closed her eyes.
The words didn't erase the past. They didn't undo the months of vigilance, the reflex to listen for footsteps, or the constant awareness of exits and reflections and shadows. But they did something quieter. They shifted the weight of responsibility off her shoulders—just a little.
They stayed like that for a while, neither of them speaking.
Outside, the world continued as it always did. A car passed. Someone laughed in the distance. A door closed somewhere down the corridor. Ordinary life, moving forward without pausing for anyone's private catastrophes.
Inside the flat, inside her, something was slowly reorienting.
Not relief.
Not yet.
But direction.
For the first time in a long while, she wasn't just reacting. She wasn't just enduring.
There was a path forward—even if it was narrow, even if it was still lined with uncertainty.
And for now, with his arms around her and the noise of the world kept safely outside, that was enough.