The first thing Hidayah felt was the pavement against her cheek.
Rough. Cold. Too close.
Hands gripped her shoulders, firm but careful, voices overlapping above her—urgent, controlled, tinged with panic they were trying to suppress.
"Don't move, Hidayah. Don't move."
"Someone call SCDF already? Ambulance on the way?"
"I think she's bleeding—hold here, hold here—"
She blinked once. The world came back in shards. A flash of orange safety barriers. The shadow of a half-finished walkway. A young man, familiar yet unplaceable, kneeling in front of her, eyes wide and cautious, one hand hovering as though afraid to touch without permission.
She tried to speak. Nothing came.
Her body felt foreign. Limbs heavy, unresponsive. Her side pressed against cold concrete, knees drawn in slightly, someone's jacket folded under her head like a fragile cushion.
"Miss, can you hear me?" A controlled voice—male, middle-aged—hovered above her.
She thought she nodded.
"That's good. That's good. Just keep your eyes open. Help is coming."
Only then did she notice the smell.
Metallic. Sharp.
Blood.
Her blood.
A wave of cold rolled down her chest, through her arms, and into her fingers. Not pain—not yet. Just a soft, spreading weakness, like the air had been drained from the world.
"She's losing colour," someone said.
Another voice, taut now, replied, "Ambulance is five minutes out."
Five minutes felt impossibly long.
Hidayah's fingers twitched against the pavement. She tried to curl them, but couldn't feel if they moved. Her breath came in shallow, uneven gasps, each inhale scraping against something in her chest.
She remembered hands—Michael being forced down, the sudden release, the metallic clatter of the knife.
Everything blurred after that.
"Stay with us, alright?" The young man in front of her leaned closer. "What's your name?"
She swallowed, throat burning.
"Hidayah," she whispered.
"Okay, Hidayah. I'm Uncle Daniel. That's Uncle Rahim behind you. We're not going anywhere."
She wanted to speak, to thank them, to tell them it was okay, but the words froze.
The siren came before she saw the lights—soft at first, distant, a threat she hadn't imagined but had known might arrive. Then louder, sharper, slicing the air, and the crowd exhaled collectively, relief spilling in muted waves.
"She's conscious," Daniel called out as the ambulance screeched to a stop. "Stab wound—abdomen, I think. Knife already removed."
Paramedics moved with precision, gloves snapping, equipment clattering, oxygen masks unfolding like shields.
Cold scissors cut through fabric, and the first pulse of pain hit.
Hidayah gasped, sound caught in the mask, fire blooming inside her side, radiating out in trembling waves.
"Easy, easy," a paramedic murmured. "You're doing great."
Great. She wanted to laugh at the word. The world had narrowed to siren rhythm, hiss of oxygen, steady counting of vitals.
Her phone was taken before she could notice, fingers unclenching automatically. Someone asked for her NRIC, another for emergency contact.
"Father," she breathed. "Kamari."
The stretcher lifted, and the ground dropped away. The sky tilted sideways, a blur of steel and orange construction cones as the city rushed past.
Every bump of the road made her jolt. Her body swayed on the stretcher, unresponsive but aching. Pain flared, then dulled, then flared again. Her consciousness frayed and reformed like smoke in a sudden draft.
She saw lights flicker inside the ambulance. White panels, red LEDs, a paramedic's face through a mask.
"BP dropping," one said.
"Pulse weak. Maintain oxygen," another replied.
Everything was clinical, precise, detached—and terrifying in its efficiency.
Hidayah tried to focus, tried to tell herself she was safe, that she had survived, that the officers had removed the immediate threat. Her chest rose and fell, shallow and chaotic, until she realised it had slowed just slightly.
In the spaces between breaths, she remembered Michael. Not the man she had once known, not even the fleeting memory of rugby games and casual smiles—but the containment, the obsession, the knife, and the weight of inevitability he had pressed into her.
She couldn't feel relief yet. Not fully. It would come later, in pieces.
The ambulance took turns sharply, and she felt the weight of every turn, the sickening tilt, the push of gravity. Someone's gloved hand pressed against her arm, a grounding touch, a tether she barely noticed but needed desperately.
A paramedic murmured her name. "Hidayah. Keep your eyes on me. You're doing amazing."
Her world narrowed further: the beep of the monitors, the hiss of oxygen, the rhythmic counting. She clung to it, the structure, the care, the order—something solid in a world that had been fractured into jagged, dangerous fragments.
She felt herself slipping again, to the edge of consciousness, but this time the hands, the voices, and the steady human insistence kept her tethered.
Somewhere beyond the siren, beyond the ambulance, beyond the hospital that waited with fluorescent corridors and surgical precision, she knew—finally—that she had been caught before falling entirely into the void.
And for the first time that day, in the midst of the fear, the pain, and the chaos, she allowed herself a fragment of something she hadn't felt in weeks.
Direction.
Control.
Possibility.
----------
The hospital ceiling was too bright.
White panels stretched endlessly above her, sterile and unyielding. Every inhale brought the sharp, antiseptic smell of cleaning agents mixed with something metallic—her own blood, faint but pervasive. The stretcher beneath her pressed against her back with cold firmness, straps across her torso holding her just enough to prevent sudden movement. Her body felt simultaneously heavy and uncooperative, as if it belonged to someone else.
"Hidayah," a voice said sharply, cutting through the fog in her head. "Can you hear me?"
Her eyelids fluttered. She forced them open.
A doctor leaned over her, mask in place but eyes calm, deliberate, and steady. "I'm Dr Amrit. You've sustained a stab wound. We're running scans now to assess internal bleeding. You're safe here."
Safe. The word hit her in fragments—intellectually comprehensible but emotionally fractured. She wanted to believe it, but her body did not yet trust language. Her chest felt hollow, her breathing shallow and hesitant.
"We're administering pain relief," Dr Amrit continued. "You may feel drowsy. Try to stay awake if you can. It's important for monitoring."
Hidayah nodded faintly. Movement required negotiation, each muscle protesting. Her hands curled instinctively over her abdomen, trembling slightly as if even the act of touching herself reminded her of the wound.
A nurse moved alongside, checking the monitors, gloves sliding over her arm to attach an IV line. "BP stable, pulse weak but regular. Oxygen mask on, please," the nurse said softly, precisely. Hidayah allowed the mask to settle over her face, the hiss of oxygen filling her ears, a strange comfort in its rhythm.
They wheeled her down a corridor that stretched endlessly, lights flickering above, casting sterile reflections on the linoleum floor. The hum of machines—blood pressure monitors, heart rate alarms—blended with clipped voices passing in medical shorthand. Each sound drilled her awareness sharper.
She could feel the bruise of her muscles, the ache of strain, and the sear of internal pain. Every minor jostle sent jolts along nerves that were already on alert. She became aware of the subtle pressure changes in the stretcher and the subtle tilt when the wheels hit the uneven floor. Each tiny movement demanded vigilance her body hadn't been allowed to abandon.
A doctor's shadow fell across her vision. "Hidayah, we're preparing you for a CT scan to check for internal bleeding. You may feel a little pressure and some cold. I'll be right here the whole time."
They wheeled her into the scanner room. The machine loomed above her like a mechanical ceiling, cold plastic and metal. She lay still, straps holding her arms down lightly, and listened to the rhythmic clicks and hums of the equipment. The bright lights reflected off the white walls, unyielding.
"Breathe shallow. Stay as still as you can," a technician instructed. Hidayah obeyed, every inhale measured, every muscle consciously locked into place. The scanner whirred. The pressure in her chest ebbed and flowed with each pulse of the machine, a reminder that she was alive but fragile.
When the scan finished, she was wheeled back toward the emergency surgery waiting area. A nurse checked her vitals repeatedly, each beep of the monitor anchoring her awareness. "BP holding. Heart rate steady," the nurse reported softly. The words were clinical, but they carried a quiet assurance Hidayah clung to.
Painkillers began to take effect, a warm, slow numbing that let her muscles relax just enough to feel the reality of being attended to. Hands moved over her carefully—adjusting blankets, repositioning the IV, monitoring for pallor, and checking oxygen saturation.
Even as the clinical world moved around her, Hidayah's mind could not fully surrender. Every sound, every shadow, every passing figure registered. Yet beneath it, beneath the panic and adrenaline, a small kernel of calm began to form. She was being seen. She was being tended to. And for the first time since the attack, containment was not abstract—it was tangible, present in gloves, monitors, and measured words.
Her body shivered with exhaustion. The room smelt of antiseptic, metal, and faintly of her own fear. Machines beeped, lights hummed, and voices moved in clipped rhythm, but she began to let herself rest against the certainty that every movement, every procedure, was deliberate, controlled, and protective.
Hidayah closed her eyes. Not asleep—not safe in any abstract sense—but allowed to be held by the procedures, by the hands and voices that acknowledged her presence without question. The hospital was clinical. It was cold. It was unforgiving. But in its precision, its methodical attention, it offered her a form of containment she had longed for far more than comfort: real, measurable, unarguable.
Her fingers flexed, testing sensation. Her breathing slowed imperceptibly. For the first time that day, she let the silence around her fill her, absorbing it like a shield.
She was still in danger. The world beyond these walls was unpredictable, and the attacker had not vanished from memory. But here, now, in white light and clipped voices, she existed unthreatened.
And that, for now, was enough.
-------------
Khairul sat at his desk, fingers paused over a stack of paperwork. The office was quiet, the low hum of the air-conditioning filling the gaps between his thoughts. His phone buzzed sharply, startling in the calm. The screen showed a familiar number.
He answered without hesitation.
"Khairul," came the voice, strained but controlled. "It's Hidayah..."
Khairul straightened immediately. "Uncle? What's happened?"
"There's… been an incident," Kamari said, voice tight. "She's conscious, but she's been stabbed. She's on her way to the hospital now. I wanted you to know."
Time slowed. The pen in Khairul's hand rattled against the desk. His mind cleared instantly, every muscle already coiling for movement.
"Which hospital?" he asked, voice clipped, steady despite the tension knotting his chest.
"Tan Tock Seng," Kamari replied. "I'm driving to pick up your aunt before going to the hospital."
Khairul didn't pause. He grabbed his car keys, slung his bag over his shoulder. "I'm on my way," he said.
"Khairul—thank you," Kamari said, relief threading through his words despite the urgency.
He hung up, the stack of paperwork forgotten. His mind was no longer on forms or schedules. It was on her, on the hospital, on the narrow thread between danger and containment, and on the steps he had to take next.
----------
Hidayah was half-conscious when the voices reached her, familiar yet distant, like echoes through fog.
Her mother's was soft and trembling, repeating her name over and over, each syllable a prayer, each pause a held breath. Her father's followed, low and measured, but threaded with something taut beneath the calm, a tension that made her chest tighten even through the haze of pain.
"Where is she?" Kamari asked, voice clipped, urgent yet disciplined. "I need to see my daughter."
"She's still in assessment," a nurse replied gently.
Time felt suspended as they moved, her body heavy, limbs unresponsive, consciousness flickering between blur and clarity. When Kamari finally reached her bedside, even from half-awareness she felt it — the solidity of him, the weight of his presence.
"Abah," she whispered, voice cracked and thin.
His hand closed over hers instantly, warm, steady, and grounding. Fingers strong, unyielding, anchoring her in a world that had tilted sideways. "I'm here," he said. "You're not alone."
Her mother hovered at her side, brushing hair back with trembling fingers, tears slipping freely. "You scared us," she murmured. Her voice cracked, raw with worry, grief, and relief.
"I'm sorry," Hidayah breathed, barely audible.
Kamari shook his head, firm but gentle. "No. Don't apologise. Not for this."
The doctor returned, explaining procedures in clipped, precise language. IV lines, imaging, lab tests, monitoring vitals. Risks. Contingencies. Next steps. Kamari absorbed every word, his mind scanning, cataloguing, and understanding. Each question was measured, each answer filed. Even in this quiet room, his presence radiated protection.
When Khairul arrived, the corridor shadows stretching long and dim, he was breathless, pale, but controlled — his movements deliberate, restrained. The nurse glanced at him, ready to stop him, until Kamari's gaze lifted and nodded once. That was enough.
Khairul crossed to her side, pausing only to take in the scene: IV lines tracing her frail form, monitors beeping in rhythm with her heart, and the bloodied bandages stark against her pale skin. His jaw clenched, eyes dark, fierce, and contained, the kind of presence that made the room feel suddenly smaller, focused, and safe.
He didn't speak. Words were unnecessary. Instead, he reached for her hand.
Hidayah's eyes found his, relief crashing over her in waves. Fingers weak but determined, she curled them around his, seeking the anchor. He leaned down, forehead resting briefly against hers, a quiet, unshakeable pressure.
"I'm here," he whispered. "I've got you."
The words didn't just reach her ears. They threaded through her chest, warming, steadying, reclaiming some corner of her body that had been suspended in terror. Exhaustion, sharp and dragging, began its pull, but his hands held her in place — not restraining, not smothering, just containing, stabilising.
Outside, the world moved in sharp, procedural lines. Police officers waited in rigid formation. Doctors conferred over charts, prepping medications and imaging machines. Nurses coordinated quietly and efficiently, the air humming with sterile urgency.
Inside the small room, however, everything slowed. The beeping monitors, the smell of antiseptic and iron, the soft rustle of bandages — all of it receded into a background hum. Only the hands holding hers, the steady pressure of Khairul at her side, and the warmth of her parents enveloping her remained.
She closed her eyes, letting herself drift, not into fear or despair, but into a fragile sense of safety. For the first time that day, she was allowed to be small. Vulnerable. Supported. Held.
Time became measured by the rise and fall of her chest, the gentle squeeze of her father's hand, and the imperceptible tightening of Khairul's grip. Each breath reminded her that she had not been abandoned in the chaos, that containment could exist, even in the wake of violence.
Outside, life moved forward. Sirens, footsteps, quiet commands. Systems engaging, people acting. But inside, in that suspended bubble of attention and care, Hidayah was no longer alone.
The small, clinical room, bright and unforgiving, had become something else: a place where fear could be acknowledged and held but not allowed to dominate. Where someone else's presence could absorb the sharp edges, leaving just enough space for her to exist, fragile but intact, beneath hands that would not let go.