The operating theatre doors closed with a soft, final sound, the hinge's click echoing in the otherwise sterile corridor. Khairul froze just outside, fists unclenching and recoiling repeatedly, chest rising too fast, shoulders stiff with tension. He had followed the stretcher as far as protocol allowed, stopping only when a nurse's hand, firm yet gentle, pressed lightly against his arm.
"We'll update you as soon as we can," she said, her voice steady and professional but carrying a human warmth he didn't register until it was gone.
Inside, Hidayah vanished under the fluorescent glare and swinging doors, swallowed by the antiseptic hum of machines and the rhythm of clinical efficiency. Outside, time lost its shape. Minutes stretched into silent eternity; every distant beep and every footstep seemed magnified. His body wanted to move, to check every corridor, every entry point, every camera feed—but he stayed still. Discipline kept him planted; experience whispered that moving without purpose would do nothing.
Kamari lowered himself into a hard plastic chair along the wall, spine straight, hands folded tightly, as if holding some fragile balance in his grasp. His wife sat beside him, pale and silent, eyes locked on the operating theatre sign, trying to will the doors to move faster.
Khairul's mind, trained for crisis, ran a rapid scan of contingencies. Entry points. Staff rotation. Response times. Worst-case scenarios. He catalogued, memorised, and prepared—but silently, invisibly, so no one could see the breadth of the vigilance tightening around him like a second skin.
He replayed fragments he couldn't suppress: the urgent call, the flash of blood, the way Hidayah's fingers had felt too light in his hand. His chest tightened, not with panic, but with awareness sharpened to a blade.
"She's strong," Kamari murmured, voice low, fragile.
Khairul nodded once, jaw clenched. His own voice didn't trust itself. All he could do was remain, a sentinel in the corridor, eyes unblinking, body poised.
Holding space.
Holding readiness.
Holding hope.
----------
Inside the theatre, Hidayah drifted between awareness and darkness. Time lost its edges. Sounds arrived in fragments: the low hum of machines, a soft beeping that seemed to echo inside her skull, and voices clipped and urgent.
"BP still low."
"Prep for exploratory laparotomy."
Cold spread across her abdomen. It wasn't the knife anymore, but the antiseptic chill of the table, the metallic brush of instruments against the drape. Her limbs felt heavy and detached, as though gravity had doubled its grip. She tried to move but couldn't. The world had narrowed to the mask lowered over her face, the bright overhead lights pressing in, and the measured rhythm of people around her, each step, each voice, each touch deliberate.
"Hidayah," Dr Amrit's calm voice broke through the haze, appearing at the edges of her vision. "We're going to put you to sleep now. You're safe. We'll take care of you."
She wanted to ask questions, to understand the severity, and to know whether this was as bad as she feared. But the words dissolved before forming. Consciousness slid beneath the surface. The mask smelt faintly of plastic and reassurance.
And then, nothing but the soft, mechanical whir of ventilation and the intermittent instructions of the team as the surgery began.
The procedure lasted two hours and seventeen minutes. Each minute stretched infinitely in the waiting area, each second measured in the rise and fall of Kamari's chest, the tight stillness of his hands, and the occasional, controlled exhale from Khairul as he scanned the sterile corridor outside.
Inside, Dr Amrit and the surgical team worked methodically. The knife had penetrated deep enough to cause significant internal bleeding, but, by some small mercy, major organs had been spared by millimetres that mattered. Haemostasis was delicate. Blood loss was notable but under control. Every incision, every suture, every swab was deliberate, deliberate in a way that spoke to experience tempered by care.
They repaired, they cleaned, and they monitored. Machines measured, alarms remained quiet. The team moved as a single organism, synchronised, precise. There was urgency but not panic, a balance that kept everything from tipping into disaster.
Outside, the waiting room existed in a strange limbo. Kamari's hands clenched and unclenched as he shifted his weight, posture taut but restrained. His eyes were fixed on the theatre doors as if willing them to open, unwilling to blink lest he miss a detail. Khairul, just a step behind, remained silent, scanning every corner of the space with a trained vigilance. His body was rigid, muscles coiled from years of discipline, yet his mind had been trained to hold, to wait, to process information minute by minute, ready to react if the world outside the theatre turned chaotic.
Every footstep in the corridor drew a reaction: a tightening of the jaw, a slight shift in stance. Every muffled sound, every beep from an unseen monitor, was catalogued and assessed. There was nothing he could do inside, but he prepared mentally, running through possibilities, ensuring that when Hidayah emerged, the environment would not fail her.
And then, finally, Dr Amrit appeared. His white coat was crisp, his mask was still on, but his eyes carried the calm authority of someone who had seen trauma and survived it many times over.
"She's out of surgery," he said. Relief punctuated each word, though tempered by professionalism. "She's stable. We repaired internal bleeding and cleaned the wound thoroughly. She'll be in ICU overnight for monitoring."
Kamari exhaled slowly, one hand pressing to his chest as if physically holding some of the tension that had been knotted there for hours.
"Can we see her?" His voice was low, careful, and measured.
"In a bit," Dr Amrit replied. "One at a time. She'll still be sedated."
Khairul nodded sharply, almost dizzy with relief. Alive. She was alive. That was what mattered. That was the axis around which all other concerns rotated.
They followed the nurse through the corridors, past the antiseptic brightness, the sound of distant ventilators, and the measured steps of staff moving between patients. The ICU smelt of disinfectant, of warm plastic, of controlled air systems that hummed under ceiling vents. Monitors blinked in green and red, softly alarming and resetting, reading out the rhythm of a body that had been violently interrupted but was now being held in check.
Hidayah lay in the transfer trolley bed, lines attached at her wrist and neck, the IV drip feeding saline steadily, and the oxygen mask still resting gently over her face. Her hair clung damp to her forehead. The bandages over her abdomen were thick and white, soaking just enough to remind them all of the violence that had reached inside her.
She was still unconscious but breathing steadily, and that alone was miraculous. Khairul's eyes scanned the lines, the monitors, the instruments—his mind running silently through contingencies, risks, and what-ifs, trained to read patterns even in clinical stillness. Kamari knelt beside her, hands holding hers lightly, warmth in the palm that contrasted with the cold sterility around them.
Dr Amrit outlined the next steps, pointing to monitors, explaining the limits of sedation, the need for observation overnight, and the potential for follow-up surgery if complications arose. Words were clinical but reassuring. Questions were answered with clarity. Both men listened intently, absorbing every detail, cataloguing it for the coming hours.
And through it all, Khairul remained close, silent, watching. Waiting. Anchored. Every muscle tuned to respond, every thought calculating and ready, because the only thing that mattered in this sterile, humming room was that Hidayah survived—and that nothing, not even a heartbeat away, could undo the fragile, hard-won stability she now lay in.
----------
The ICU was quiet in a way that felt unnatural, the kind of silence that presses against the chest while demanding attention. Machines hummed softly, steady and unceasing, each note a reminder of the fragile line between stability and disaster. Monitors blinked in green and red, counting out heartbeats and breaths, oxygen saturation, and blood pressure, minute by minute, second by second. The low hiss of the ventilator was almost hypnotic, punctuating the otherwise still air.
Hidayah lay beneath crisp white sheets, the hospital gown tucked around her carefully, pale against the sterile environment. Her chest rose and fell in a slow, even rhythm, assisted by the gentle push of the ventilator. Tubes and lines traced in and out, IV drip steady, saline feeding her body silently, almost invisibly. Her hair clung damply to her forehead, the faint tang of antiseptic lingering around her. The bandages across her abdomen were thick and white, spotless now except for the faint stain of coagulated blood that had been absorbed, but they told the story of the violence she had endured more than words ever could.
Khairul stood beside the bed, his posture taut yet controlled, every muscle coiled with awareness. He didn't touch the machines or the monitors and didn't disturb the lines or the tubes. His eyes swept over every detail: the rhythm of the ventilator, the subtle rise and fall of her chest, and the faint colour returning to her lips with each breath. He noted the IV drip's rate, the readings on the pulse oximeter, and the soft tick of the blood pressure monitor. Small things that, together, meant she was stable. That, for now, she was alive.
"She fought," the nurse murmured beside him, voice quiet but carrying weight. "That helped."
Khairul's jaw tightened slightly. He swallowed, voice low and almost to himself. "She always does." There was no pride in his tone, no triumph. Only acknowledgement of the unyielding resilience he had come to expect, the muscle memory of a body that refused to break even when tested.
The door opened softly, and Kamari stepped in, careful not to jostle the space, careful to keep the quiet of the ICU intact. His eyes went immediately to his daughter. He crouched slightly to rest a hand lightly on her shoulder, as if the mere weight of his presence could reassure her body even before she woke.
"You did good," he murmured, voice low and steady. "Just rest now."
Hidayah's eyelids fluttered once. No words came, no movement beyond the faint, almost imperceptible twitch of a finger. But the small sign of life, the rhythm of her chest, the even rise and fall beneath the sheets, was enough.
Khairul allowed himself, finally, to sit on the edge of the chair the nurse gestured toward. He hadn't realised how long he had been standing, taut as a wire, every sense waiting for something to go wrong. The chair felt foreign beneath him, grounding and insignificant at once, but it was enough to let the tension in his shoulders ease just slightly.
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, eyes still fixed on her. The steady hum of machines became a metronome for his thoughts. Each beep was counted, catalogued, and stored. He noted the faint rise of the ventilator, the slight flutter of her lashes as they twitched under the sedation, and the slow return of colour to her fingers. These were victories measured in millimetres and seconds, quiet but absolute.
Time passed in long, measured breaths. Nurses came and went, checking vitals, adjusting drips, and noting observations in clipped shorthand. Khairul did not speak to them, did not ask questions, and did not make any movement that could distract or disturb. He only observed, only catalogued, only waited.
Kamari remained on the other side of the bed, still holding her shoulder lightly, silent except for the occasional soft exhale. His hand was warm and grounding, a steady counterpoint to the cold clinical air. He shifted slightly, adjusting the blankets, ensuring the monitors weren't disturbed, his eyes never leaving her.
Khairul allowed himself to think, finally, not of what had happened, but of what could happen. The fragility of each heartbeat, each breath, was not abstract; it was immediate and real, and it demanded presence. He made mental notes: when the sedatives would likely wear off, the timing of her vitals, how the nurses moved, and the pace of the machines. Every element was a piece in a puzzle that would allow him to respond, to act, to protect, even from the edge of the room.
Minutes passed. The quiet became a rhythm in itself, punctuated only by the soft clicks of equipment and the occasional tap of a nurse's shoes on the polished floor. Khairul's eyes never left her face, tracing the contours of her features, memorising the stillness and the small signs of life returning.
For the first time since the incident, Khairul allowed himself to exhale fully. He did not speak. He did not move. He merely existed in the quiet, letting the reality of her survival settle like sediment after a storm.
Somewhere in the periphery, life continued: footsteps of other nurses, distant pages over the hospital intercom, and the faint echo of voices in other ICUs. But for this small, suspended space, nothing existed beyond the bed, the machines, and the fragile, miraculous stability of Hidayah Kamari lying before him.
----------
Outside the ICU, the fluorescent corridor stretched too long, the polished floor reflecting harsh, white light. Khairul stood rigid, hands loosely clenched at his sides, eyes fixed on the closed ICU doors. Kamari was already upright, posture taut, shoulders squared as if bracing against invisible weight. The air felt heavy, charged—not with emotion yet, but with anticipation.
The plainclothes officers appeared at the far end of the corridor, purposeful in their movement. Officer Shahrizal Othman led, his stride measured, authoritative yet controlled. His partner followed, quieter, scanning the surroundings while maintaining a discreet distance.
"Mr Kamari," Shahrizal began, voice even and clipped. "We've taken Michael Ng Kok Hui into custody."
Kamari's hands tightened briefly before settling at his sides. He straightened further, jaw set. "Where?"
"Near his residence," Shahrizal replied. "He attempted to escape from civilians who intervened at the scene. The weapon has been recovered on-site, intact."
Khairul's chest tightened, and he flexed his fingers almost imperceptibly. The image of the knife, the sudden lunge, the flash of red—it all replayed in fragments but contained. He drew a shallow breath and exhaled slowly, forcing his pulse into a calm rhythm.
Kamari's gaze didn't waver. "And the charges?"
"Criminal intimidation, breach of Personal Protection Order, and causing grievous hurt with a weapon," Shahrizal stated. His tone carried neither triumph nor malice—just fact. "Additional charges may follow, pending the results of a forensic psychiatric reassessment."
Khairul's jaw clenched. The word 'psychiatric'—familiar, clinical, a buffer against what Michael might become—did not ease the tension. He allowed his hands to unclench just slightly, only to keep them from trembling under suppressed energy.
Kamari exhaled once, sharp and controlled. "She'll give her statement when she is medically fit," Shahrizal continued. "For now, your priority is her recovery."
Khairul's voice, low and deliberate, cut through the sterile quiet of the hallway. "He won't be released."
Shahrizal met his gaze directly. Eyes firm, precise. "Not this time," he confirmed.
The corridor remained still for a heartbeat longer, as though the fluorescent lights themselves were holding their breath. Khairul's mind catalogued every word, every inflection. Not this time. The phrase was small and clinical, but it resonated like a line drawn in concrete. This was not an accident, not a misstep, not a lapse in protocol. This was containment. Finally. Immediate. Non-negotiable.
Kamari shifted slightly, scanning the sterile walls and polished floor, as if absorbing that containment physically. He nodded once, subtle but complete. He had no need for words. Everything that had been said was sufficient.
Khairul allowed himself to step a fraction closer to Kamari, maintaining a respectful distance yet staying within the radius where his presence could respond if needed. His eyes flicked briefly to the ICU doors. Behind them, Hidayah's chest rose and fell under the gentle hum of ventilator support, her life measured in the quiet rhythm of machines and monitors.
The officers did not linger. Shahrizal's gaze swept over Khairul, reading him, acknowledging without comment. No discussion of procedure or further action was necessary—Khairul understood every nuance of what had been conveyed. He felt the stabilising weight of structure: the law, the hospital, the protective system, all in motion and aligned.
As they moved down the corridor, Kamari's shoulder brushed lightly against Khairul's, an unspoken acknowledgement that they were both present, vigilant, and restrained. No panic. No show. Just readiness.
Khairul's mind replayed the words once more: Criminal intimidation. Breach of PPO. Causing grievous hurt. Each term was clinical, precise, and absolute. No room for interpretation. No escape clause. Not this time.
He exhaled slowly, a measure of relief threading through the tension coiled in his muscles. Michael was contained. The threat was neutralised—for now. Outside the ICU, the corridor seemed less oppressive, though still too bright, still too sterile.
Khairul's eyes returned to the closed doors, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he allowed himself to trust that containment would hold. That procedure, protocol, and force combined could keep Hidayah safe while she slept under machines and monitors, unaware of the danger that had stalked her minutes before.
And in that stillness, the small, taut weight of relief was enough to hold him upright, to anchor him, as the system did what he could not: enforce safety without hesitation, without compromise, and without asking permission.
----------
Hidayah woke hours later, the world narrowing to the rhythm of her own shallow breathing. Pain radiated beneath the analgesics—a dull, heavy throb that marked her abdomen and reminded her in quiet insistence that she had been violated, that the knife had been real, and that the threat was no longer hypothetical. The ceiling above her was bright, sterile, almost accusatory in its harshness.
The first thing she felt, before she even registered sound or light, was warmth along her fingers. Her gaze drifted sideways, sluggish, reluctant, and there he was—Khairul, asleep in the chair beside her bed, hand still lightly enclosing hers. Even in his stillness, he radiated a tension that refused to release, a vigilance he had carried for hours, maybe all night.
Her throat tightened, a lump catching the quiet sobs she hadn't permitted herself to release yet. She squeezed his fingers weakly, testing the connection. His eyes opened instantly, pupils adjusting to the harsh hospital light, relief flickering through them so raw it made her chest ache in a different way.
"You're awake," he said, voice rough with restrained emotion. "Hey. Easy."
Hidayah nodded faintly, tears leaking sideways into the pillow, her body trembling from exhaustion, pain, and residual adrenaline.
"I'm here," he repeated softly, leaning slightly forward, forehead brushing against her temple. "You're safe."
For now. The words were temporary shields against what had happened, against what could have happened if the police hadn't acted, if the civilians hadn't intervened, if the system had failed.
She blinked against the harsh light, mind skimming over fragments of memory—the knife, the fall, the paramedics, the sirens, the cold antiseptic smell of the hospital corridors. The line had been crossed. It had been seen, registered, documented. The world had witnessed the danger Michael posed. And now, for the first time in months, Hidayah allowed herself the barest exhalation of relief: the threat was contained, at least for now.
Khairul's hand tightened just slightly, a grounding weight that reminded her she wasn't alone. The world outside still moved, chaotic, unrelenting, but here, in the sterile cocoon of the ICU, she was alive.
And that—just that—was enough.