The exam ended at 12:43 p.m.
A green confirmation tick blinked on Hidayah's screen.
Submission successful.
She waited. Counted three breaths. Closed her laptop only when the invigilator reached the end of her row and nodded once, formally.
"You may leave once your submission has been confirmed," the invigilator said again, voice carrying over the room.
Chairs shifted. Bags zipped. A few muted laughs broke the tension.
Hidayah stood, slung her backpack over her shoulder, and filed out with the rest of the class.
The corridor outside was bright with afternoon light. Ordinary. Students leaned against walls, phones already out, voices overlapping in relief and exhaustion. Someone complained about Question Five. Someone else said they were starving.
Hidayah walked past them, unhurried.
Her phone buzzed.
Jasmine: DONE 😭 I swear my brain melted. You heading off?
Hidayah: Yeah. Go eat. I'm going home via train.
Jasmine: Text me when you reach MRT okay.
She slipped the phone back into her pocket and adjusted her bag.
The path toward the MRT station was partially cordoned off. Construction barriers had been up for weeks — orange mesh, metal fencing, and temporary signage funnelling pedestrians into a narrower passageway.
She took it without hesitation.
Her pace was steady. Even.
Halfway through the corridor, a voice cut through the ambient noise.
"Hidayah."
She stopped.
Turned.
Michael stood several metres ahead, partially blocking the path.
He looked thinner. Sharper. His eyes were too focused, his posture angled forward like he'd been waiting.
He stepped closer.
She didn't move.
"Michael," she said.
Neutral. Flat.
"I know you're done today," he said. "I checked the exam schedule."
She shifted her weight subtly, angling her body, preparing to pass him on the right.
"I don't want to talk."
She took a step.
He reached out.
She reacted instantly.
Her left forearm snapped up, knocking his wrist aside before his fingers could close. She stepped in at the same time, shoulder rotating, elbow driving forward into his chest.
The impact forced air from his lungs.
Michael staggered back a half-step, more startled than hurt.
"Don't touch me," she said.
Around them, a few students slowed. Someone frowned. Someone hesitated, unsure whether to keep walking.
"You think you can just walk away?" he snapped.
He lunged.
She pivoted, right foot sliding back to widen her stance. Her palm struck his shoulder, redirecting his momentum past her body. Her left hand stayed on his arm, guiding it across her centreline. Her knee drove up into his outer thigh.
Michael hissed and lurched sideways, one hand slapping against the barrier to keep himself upright.
A girl nearby yelped and jumped back, nearly colliding with another group behind her.
Michael swung at her head.
She raised her forearm to shield, took the impact on the bone, and stepped inside the strike. Her right hand hooked his elbow, her left hand braced his shoulder, and she turned her hips, shunting him sideways into the fencing.
The barrier rattled and rang.
A backpack fell. Someone swore. A phone clattered to the ground.
Michael shoved her back hard.
She went back two steps, heel skidding on loose gravel from the construction site.
He followed, trying to crowd her, forearm rising toward her throat.
She dropped her weight and jammed her elbow up into his jaw.
His head snapped back.
She didn't chase. She slid laterally instead, keeping the barrier to her back and the thinning corridor to her left.
More people had stopped now. A small knot of students stood frozen, unsure where to move. Others tried to push past behind them, then realised they couldn't.
"Oi—what's going on?"
"Hey, move!"
"You can't fight here!"
Michael wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Blood smeared across his knuckles.
"You always do this," he said, voice rising. "You always push me."
He stepped in again, lower, trying to drive his shoulder into her centre.
She framed against his collarbone and biceps, redirected his head to the side, and twisted her body. He clipped her shoulder anyway, the impact turning her and slamming her back into the barrier.
The metal clanged loudly, echoing down the narrowed passage.
A boy behind her shouted and scrambled away, tripping over someone's tote bag.
Michael pressed in, forearm across her shoulder, trying to pin her there.
She planted one foot against the base of the fence, shifted her hips, and drove her elbow upward into his jaw again.
He reeled.
She stepped out on an angle, broke contact, then re-entered to shove him away from the crowd.
"Call 999!"
Michael's breathing was ragged now. His movements less controlled. More people were shouting. A few were filming.
"You don't get to ignore me," he said.
He reached into his pocket.
The blade snapped open with a metallic click.
Someone screamed.
The crowd surged backward — and sideways — at the same time. The corridor compressed. Someone bumped into Hidayah's shoulder from behind.
She didn't retreat.
She closed the distance immediately.
She jammed his knife arm with both hands, one on the wrist, one on the forearm, stepping to his outside. The first slash glanced off her sleeve, scraping fabric and skin without biting deep.
She turned her hips and drove her knee up into his abdomen.
Michael grunted but didn't release the knife.
They crashed together, bodies colliding, both fighting for balance as someone behind them stumbled and knocked into Michael's back.
Her shoulder slammed into the barrier again.
His elbow caught her ribs.
Her foot slipped on gravel and something plastic underfoot.
He wrenched his arm free and slashed again, wider this time, panicked and fast.
She pivoted just in time, the blade grazing past her side.
She stepped in again immediately.
Her left hand trapped his wrist.
Her right forearm smashed down onto it.
Once.
Twice.
The knife flew out of his hand and clattered against the concrete, skidding under the fencing and disappearing into the construction area.
A cheer broke out from somewhere behind them.
Michael didn't stop.
He surged forward and wrapped his arms around her, driving her sideways into the barrier and down.
They hit hard.
Her back struck first.
Then her shoulder.
They rolled into someone's dropped bag. Someone else jumped out of the way.
She kicked free and scrambled to her feet.
Michael was already up.
He charged.
She braced, forearms crossing to shield.
The impact drove the breath from her lungs.
They staggered sideways, knocking into the fencing again. The barrier bowed, shrieked, held.
She shifted her weight and kicked out, chopping into the side of his knee.
He stumbled but stayed upright, grabbing the mesh to keep from falling.
He came again, wild now, grabbing, shoving, trying to drag her down with him.
She turned her shoulder in, slipped to his flank, and brought her elbow down hard into his upper back.
He twisted, caught her jacket again, and yanked.
The remaining seam tore.
She shoved him away, hard, sending him back into a cluster of frozen onlookers who scattered with shouts.
Two men finally broke from the crowd and ran in.
"Hey! Stop it!"
Michael surged forward one more time.
She stepped in and struck his wrist again, knocking his hand aside, then drove her palm into his chest.
He staggered.
The two men reached him at the same time.
One locked him from behind. The other seized his arm and forced it down.
"Let go of me!" Michael screamed. "She's lying! She started it!"
The corridor was chaos now. Voices overlapping. Phones up. Someone crying. Someone yelling for space.
Hidayah stepped back.
Her legs felt wrong.
Unsteady.
She looked down.
Red spread across the side of her jacket, dark and wet.
She pressed her hand to her side.
It came away slick.
"Oh," she said softly.
The world tilted.
Someone shouted for an ambulance.
Someone told her to sit down.
Her knees buckled.
The ground rushed up.
Hands caught her before she fully collapsed, rough and urgent, gripping her arms and shoulders to keep her upright.
"Hidayah—stay with me—don't close your eyes—"
The world tilted anyway.
Sirens wailed somewhere in the distance, stretched thin and unreal, like they were coming from underwater.
The pain arrived all at once.
Not a warning. Not a build-up. Just a sudden, blinding rupture that tore through her side and stole the air from her lungs.
Her fingers curled reflexively, nails biting into someone's sleeve.
Her vision narrowed to a grey tunnel.
The corridor noise smeared into static.
Then even that disappeared.
And everything went dark.