The semester moved forward the way things always did when danger receded—not with relief, but with inertia.
Classes resumed their familiar rhythm. Lecture halls filled. Breaks came and went. Deadlines stacked neatly into planners and calendars, turning weeks into measurable units again instead of emotional checkpoints.
For Hidayah, the absence of urgency felt strange at first. Not wrong. Just… unfamiliar.
No one was watching her every movement now. There were no calls from Student Affairs asking for updates, no security staff hovering at entrances when she arrived late, no quiet handovers of information that carried the weight of warning. The Protective Order was still active, she knew that. It hadn't been lifted. It hadn't expired.
But it had gone quiet.
That, more than anything, unsettled her.
On Monday, she attended class as usual. Hospitality operations in the morning. A short tutorial in the afternoon. Her final semester meant a lighter academic load, fewer modules—but the expectations were higher, the work more self-directed.
She sat near the window, notebook open, listening with the same disciplined attention she always had. To anyone watching, she looked normal. Focused. Calm.
Only she knew how carefully she catalogued everything around her.
Which exits were closest.
Which doors were propped open.
Who sat behind her today.
It wasn't fear anymore. It was habit.
At lunch, she ate with classmates she'd known for over a year now—comfortable, familiar faces. Conversation stayed light. Internship plans. Graduation speculation. Someone joked about how fast the year had gone.
Hidayah smiled at the right places. She laughed when appropriate.
But when her phone vibrated against the table, she startled just enough to notice.
It was nothing urgent. A message from Jasmine about choir practice shifting later this week. Hidayah replied quickly, reassured by the mundanity of it.
Normal things, she reminded herself, mattered too.
Wednesday came with silat.
That was the one day she still returned to campus even without classes, her body responding to routine before her mind did. The sports hall smelled faintly of disinfectant and sweat, familiar in a way few places were.
Training grounded her.
Coach Azrul ran drills with practiced efficiency, his instructions crisp, his expectations unchanging. Hidayah welcomed that. The predictability. The clarity of movement and response.
Her body remembered what to do even when her thoughts wandered.
Pivot. Step. Counter.
Control without hesitation.
She trained hard that evening. Harder than she needed to.
By the time she left, muscles burning pleasantly, the tension in her shoulders had eased—but it never fully disappeared.
Outside the hall, she checked her phone.
No missed calls. No messages from unknown numbers.
Still, she lingered for a moment before walking toward the bus stop.
Just listening.
The campus was quieter than usual. Students scattered in small groups, laughter drifting, footsteps echoing across concrete. Everything looked as it should.
She told herself that was enough.
Khairul noticed the change before she mentioned it.
They were on a call Thursday evening, nothing serious—just checking in, trading small updates about their day. He had finished work late and was walking toward his car, the gym bag slung over one shoulder.
"You've been quieter," he said casually.
Hidayah paused. "Have I?"
"A little," he replied. Not accusatory. Just observant.
She leaned back against her bed, staring at the ceiling. "I think things finally slowed down."
"That's good," he said.
"It is." She hesitated. "I just don't know if I'm supposed to feel relieved… or alert."
Khairul stopped walking.
"Hidayah," he said gently, "those two feelings aren't opposites."
She smiled faintly. "Figures."
They talked for a while longer. Nothing heavy. No mention of Michael. No revisiting past incidents. It felt intentional, like both of them were choosing calm together.
Before hanging up, Khairul said, "If anything changes—even something you can't explain—you tell me."
"I know," she replied.
But after the call ended, she stared at her phone for a long time, replaying the tone of his voice.
Not worried.
Watchful.
The email arrived on Friday evening.
It came in quietly, sandwiched between promotional spam and a school circular about graduation logistics.
Re: Follow-up on PPO and Case Status
Hidayah opened it while standing in the kitchen, her mother moving around behind her, preparing dinner. The television murmured in the living room where her father sat reading the evening paper.
The email was polite. Clinical. Carefully worded.
Please be informed that the matter involving Michael Ng Kok Hui remains under review. Current interim measures are in place. You will be contacted should there be further developments.
She read it once.
Then again.
There was no urgency in the language. No next appointment. No timeline. No specific officer named.
Just assurance.
She felt her chest tighten—not in panic, but in something colder.
"Everything okay?" her mother asked, glancing over.
"Yes," Hidayah replied automatically. "Just an update."
She didn't elaborate.
Later, in her room, she read the email again more carefully.
No signature.
No direct contact.
Just a departmental footer and a generic phone line.
She forwarded it to Khairul without comment.
He replied a few minutes later.
Khairul: I'll check on this.
That was all he said.
It was enough to make her uneasy.
Khairul checked on it the next morning.
Not because he distrusted the police—but because silence had weight.
He sent a brief message to Officer Shahrizal Othman, asking if there was any change in status or if additional steps were expected. Nothing demanding. Just clarification.
By evening, there was still no response.
That alone wouldn't have bothered him under normal circumstances. Officers were busy. Cases overlapped. Administrative delays happened.
But this case had never been ordinary.
He didn't tell Hidayah.
Instead, he paid closer attention.
He adjusted his schedule without announcing it. Gym sessions shifted later. Work lunches shortened. Routes home changed every few days. He parked farther from familiar entrances, walked extra blocks before doubling back.
Not because he saw someone.
Because he didn't.
The absence of presence was worse than being spotted.
One evening, while stretching at the boxing gym, he caught himself scanning reflections instead of mirrors. Watching doorways instead of timing rounds. His coach noticed.
"You distracted," the man remarked, tossing him a towel.
"Just tired," Khairul replied.
It wasn't a lie. Just incomplete.
That night, he reviewed everything he knew — not emotionally, but structurally.
Michael Ng Kok Hui.
Age twenty.
Expelled.
Prior psychiatric assessment under IMH.
Protective Order active.
Multiple prior breaches approaching threshold but not yet catastrophic enough to force permanent detention.
And now — silence.
Khairul knew this pattern.
When systems quieted, it was usually because responsibility had shifted hands.
Or slipped through them.
He made his first quiet call the next morning.
Not to the police.
To someone older.
A former colleague from his NSF days, now working private security consultancy. They met for kopi at a hawker centre far from Khairul's usual haunts.
"I'm not asking for favours," Khairul said, stirring his cup. "I'm asking for eyes."
The man listened without interrupting. When Khairul finished, he nodded once.
"You think he's escalating internally," the man said.
"Yes."
"But not visibly."
"Exactly."
The man leaned back. "Those are the ones who plan."
Khairul didn't respond. He didn't need to.
"I can't run background checks illegally," the man continued. "But I can tell you patterns. And I can point you to where cracks usually form."
"That's enough."
The man hesitated. "You involved emotionally?"
Khairul met his gaze. "Yes."
"Then don't make this a one-man mission," the man warned.
Khairul nodded.
He already wasn't.
By midweek, he confirmed two things.
First: Michael had attended all his mandated psychiatric follow-ups.
Second: Michael had been granted increased unsupervised movement under the assumption of compliance.
No one had informed Hidayah.
That bothered Khairul more than the decision itself.
He didn't challenge it yet. He documented it.
Dates. Times. Officers. Case references.
He kept copies offline.
He began driving past places Hidayah frequented — not close enough for her to see, not so far that he couldn't observe patterns.
Nothing obvious.
Which again, worried him.
On Thursday night, while Hidayah was busy with silat training, Khairul sat in his car across from a convenience store near her route home.
A figure lingered nearby.
Not watching the store.
Watching the road.
Khairul waited.
The figure never approached anyone. Never crossed the street. Never looked at him directly.
But when Hidayah's bus passed, the man turned.
Just slightly.
That was enough.
Khairul did not confront him.
He memorised posture. Gait. Clothing.
Then he drove away.
At home, Khairul made a decision he had hoped to delay.
He contacted Hidayah's father.
Not with alarm. Not with accusation.
With information.
They met the following evening at a coffee shop near the mosque — public, neutral, quiet. Kamari arrived calm but alert, already aware this was not a social call.
Khairul laid out what he knew.
What he suspected.
What he could not yet prove.
Kamari listened without interruption.
When Khairul finished, Kamari exhaled slowly.
"You think the system believes the danger has passed," Kamari said.
"Yes."
"And you don't."
"No."
Kamari nodded. "Then we prepare as if it hasn't."
They spoke logistics. Adjustments. Contingencies.
Nothing dramatic.
Nothing emotional.
Just fathers and men who understood that safety was not a feeling — it was a structure.
Before they parted, Kamari said quietly, "Thank you for not waiting until something happened."
Khairul inclined his head. "I won't."
That night, Khairul drafted a private checklist.
Not to escalate fear.
To eliminate gaps.
Secondary transport plans Emergency contact chains Legal escalation triggers Physical proximity windows
He noted times Hidayah was alone without realising it.
Those windows would close.
He didn't tell her.
Not yet.
She deserved peace — for as long as it could be preserved.
The next morning, Khairul finally received a reply from Officer Shahrizal.
Short. Polite. Non-specific.
Case is under continued monitoring. Please be assured appropriate measures are in place.
Khairul stared at the message for a long moment.
Then he typed a reply he did not send.
Instead, he saved screenshots.
And began planning as if "appropriate measures" no longer included them.
On Saturday evening, he parked two streets away from Hidayah's home and watched from a distance.
Nothing happened.
That, too, was data.
As he drove off, his phone buzzed.
A message from Hidayah.
Hidayah: Everything okay? You've been quiet today.
Khairul pulled over.
He stared at the screen.
Then typed carefully.
Khairul: Yeah. Just a long day. Get some rest, okay?
A pause.
Hidayah: You too 🤍
He closed his eyes for a moment before starting the engine.
This was the hardest part.
Knowing something was wrong —
and choosing to carry it alone
so she wouldn't have to.
For now.