Morning arrived without ceremony.
Hidayah woke to the steady electronic rhythm beside her bed, a sound that took a few seconds to recognise as reassurance rather than threat. The ceiling above her was unfamiliar—too white, too clean—and when she tried to move, her body answered in slow, resistant increments.
Pain came second.
Awareness came first.
Her throat was dry. Her limbs felt weighted, as though gravity had increased overnight. When she turned her head slightly, the motion tugged at something deep in her abdomen, a reminder that her body had been opened, stitched, kept.
Alive.
She exhaled, a shallow breath she hadn't realised she was holding.
Khairul sat beside her bed, folded into the chair like he had been there for hours—because he had. His head was tilted forward, eyes closed, hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles had gone pale.
He didn't wake when she stirred.
That, more than anything else, made her chest ache.
She reached out with effort, fingers brushing the sleeve of his shirt. The contact was light, barely there.
But it was enough.
He woke instantly.
"Hidayah," he said, voice rough, already leaning forward. "Hey—hey, don't move."
"I'm okay," she whispered, even though she wasn't entirely sure yet.
He nodded, swallowing hard, one hand hovering uncertainly before settling gently over hers, careful of the IV line. He didn't squeeze. Didn't pull.
Just stayed.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
He looked at her as if he were trying to memorise her again.
"You scared us," he said quietly.
She managed a faint, crooked smile. "I seem to be doing that a lot lately."
His mouth curved despite himself, but his eyes did not. "Don't joke."
"I'm not," she said. "I'm apologising badly."
"You don't get to apologise for surviving."
She closed her eyes for a second, then opened them again. "You stayed."
"Of course I stayed."
As if the idea of leaving had never once occurred to him.
The door opened softly.
Officer Shahrizal Othman stepped in, posture respectful, movements measured. He had changed out of his patrol uniform, but the authority remained, quiet and steady.
"Good morning, Hidayah," he said. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I lost a fight with a wall," she replied faintly.
A corner of his mouth lifted—not a smile, but something close. "That's a fair description."
He glanced briefly at Khairul, who straightened without letting go of her hand.
"I have updates," Shahrizal continued. "Nothing you need to respond to right now. Just information."
Hidayah nodded.
"Michael has been officially arrested," he said. "He is currently remanded under police custody and has been transferred to IMH for psychiatric observation. Bail has also been denied."
Khairul's jaw tightened, but he remained silent.
"The weapon recovered was a Swiss Army knife," Shahrizal added. "Used in the assault, charges will include voluntarily causing grievous hurt with a dangerous weapon, criminal intimidation, and breach of Personal Protection Order."
Hidayah closed her eyes briefly.
"Is he…" she hesitated, then forced herself to finish. "Is he still saying it was because of me?"
Shahrizal did not look away.
"Yes," he said calmly. "But the narrative has escalated. He is now claiming that you provoked him deliberately and that you were attempting to manipulate the situation to have him arrested."
Khairul's hand tightened around hers.
"That's not going to stand," he said, his voice controlled but hard.
"It won't," Shahrizal agreed. "We have two independent eyewitnesses and a video recording from a student that begins from the point he produced the weapon. Your actions are clearly defensive."
He paused, choosing his next words carefully.
"The recording also shows that you attempted to disengage and that you moved to keep him away from bystanders."
Hidayah stared at the blanket.
"I wasn't trying to be brave," she said quietly. "I just didn't want anyone else to get hurt."
"That is evident," Shahrizal said.
He shifted slightly, keeping his tone professional.
"There will be a full statement taken once your doctors clear you medically. For now, your role is to recover."
"And after?" she asked.
"After, the case proceeds. He will likely be charged in court within the week. Given the severity of the offence and the breach of PPO, remand is expected to continue."
Khairul let out a slow breath.
"Will he be able to come near her again?" he asked.
"No," Shahrizal said firmly. "There will be additional protection measures put in place. If he is deemed mentally unfit, he will be detained under the Mental Health Act. If he is deemed fit, he will be prosecuted and incarcerated. Either way, he will not be free to approach her."
Hidayah nodded, absorbing it in pieces.
Shahrizal consulted a small notebook.
"A victim care officer will follow up with you regarding court procedures, counselling options, and security planning. Your existing PPO will also be strengthened."
"Thank you," she said.
He inclined his head.
"I'll leave you to rest."
When he was gone, the room felt warmer.
Quieter.
Khairul shifted closer.
"You don't have to think about any of that right now," he said.
"I know." She looked at him. "But I will anyway."
"That's your bad habit."
She smiled faintly. "One of many."
He brushed his thumb lightly over the back of her hand.
"When this is over," he said, "we'll go somewhere quiet. No hospitals. No courtrooms. Just… somewhere with air."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
She studied his face.
"You didn't sleep."
"I blinked."
"That doesn't count."
"Neither does getting stabbed," he said gently. "But here we are."
She laughed weakly, then winced.
"Don't make me laugh," she said.
"Noted."
They sat there for a while, saying nothing.
The machines kept their steady rhythm.
The morning light crept higher.
And for the first time since everything had gone wrong, the future felt like something that might exist again.
IMH — Secure Observation Wing
Michael sat very still.
The room was designed for safety—rounded edges, muted colours, furniture fixed to the floor—but to him, it felt temporary. Like a holding space. A pause. The light overhead was dimmed, the walls unadorned, the air filtered and bland. Nothing could be gripped, nothing could be used as leverage. Yet he sat as if the constraints around him were irrelevant.
He clasped his hands together, fingers interlaced, posture composed enough that someone unfamiliar might mistake him for calm.
He wasn't calm.
He was focused.
Each thought, each movement of the jaw or eyelid, was deliberate. He measured himself as though preparing for the next moment before it arrived. There was no spontaneity. No weakness.
Dr Lim sat across from him, clipboard resting on her knee. She had been assigned to his case after reviewing every fragment of his history—prior counselling records, academic decline, fixation patterns, the repeated PPO breaches, the reports of boundary violations. She was aware of the assault, the Swiss Army knife, the violent escalation, and the witnesses.
"Michael," she said gently, "can you tell me why you believe Hidayah needed to be reminded?"
He frowned slightly, as if the question itself were flawed.
"Because forgetting wasn't natural," he said. "It was imposed."
"Imposed by whom?" she asked.
"Circumstances," he replied. "People. Time."
"That's very vague."
He lifted his head, eyes sharpening. They were dark, unblinking, precise. "It's not vague," he said quietly. "It's layered."
Dr Lim made a note, keeping her tone neutral. She was trained to listen, to record, not to judge aloud.
"You've mentioned before that you believe the two of you shared a past life," she continued. "Is that correct?"
"Yes," he said.
"And that belief hasn't changed?"
"No," he replied without hesitation. "It's become clearer."
She leaned forward slightly, careful to maintain her professional distance. "Michael, clarity doesn't always mean truth."
He smiled faintly. A curl of lips that didn't reach his eyes. "That's what people say when they don't remember," he answered.
She let that pass, noting it on the clipboard. The room was silent for a long moment, the only sound the soft rustle of paper as she wrote. Michael's hands remained folded, his posture unchanged, his gaze occasionally shifting to the corner of the room, as if calculating angles and distances, anticipating movements that would never come.
"Your previous records show that you have difficulty understanding consequences," Dr Lim said. "Do you see how your actions affected Hidayah?"
"I see," he said. His tone was flat, almost academically detached. "But seeing is not the same as agreeing."
"No one expects agreement," Dr Lim said evenly. "Recognition is sufficient."
He considered this, head tilting slightly. "Recognition… is acknowledgment," he said. "Not regret. Regret is emotional weakness."
"You were violent," she said, keeping her voice steady. "You used a weapon. You violated her personal boundaries. You caused grievous physical and psychological harm."
"Yes," he said, without a hint of remorse. "I did what I had to do. The lesson had to be delivered. She had to remember. Otherwise…" He trailed off, letting the implication hang.
"Otherwise what?" Dr Lim prompted softly.
"Otherwise it remains undone," he said. "Unresolved. Forgotten. Distorted."
Dr Lim wrote another note, her pen moving slowly. She was trained to record facts, observations, patterns. She was not there to argue philosophy. She could describe his beliefs, his logic, his actions, but she could not sanctify them.
"Michael, the law has judged your actions. You have been charged with grievous hurt with a dangerous weapon, criminal intimidation, and breach of a Personal Protection Order. Do you understand that?"
"Yes," he said. "I understand the law. But law is human. Humans are limited. Imperfect."
"Understood," she said. "Do you understand that Hidayah suffered, physically and emotionally?"
"Physically," he said without hesitation. "I acknowledge the wound. Emotional… yes. That is unavoidable when one is teaching a lesson that must be learned."
Dr Lim's pen paused. She noted the phrase carefully. His words were calculated. Cold. Detached. He explained, but he did not excuse.
She looked up, meeting his eyes. "Do you believe what you did was justified?"
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he folded his hands again, pressed them against his knees, and considered the question as if it were a problem in logic rather than ethics.
"Justified," he said finally, "is subjective. I acted according to a necessity I perceived. Not to hurt. Not to punish. To remind. To restore what was forgotten."
"And Hidayah?" she asked. "Did you consider her feelings?"
He leaned slightly back, tilting his head. "Feelings are a variable. They exist. They do not determine the course of necessary action."
Dr Lim made another note. She could see the pattern: rationalisation, detachment, a strict internal logic divorced from empathy. She could document it, explain it in court, predict escalation, but she could not soften it.
"Michael," she said finally, "your behavior is dangerous. You have a history of fixation. You disregard boundaries. You act on private interpretations of reality rather than consent or law. That will continue to be a risk to others unless interventions occur."
He nodded, calm, almost serene. "I am aware."
"Are you afraid of what comes next?" she asked.
He shrugged slightly. "Fear is for those who do not understand the necessity of their actions. I am focused."
Dr Lim wrote one final note. His composure remained intact, but she could detect under the surface the edges of obsession, the rigid architecture of his thinking, the inability to situate himself fully in the consequences for others. He was explained, but not excused.
For the remainder of the session, Michael remained still. His posture never slackened. His gaze swept the room occasionally, not wandering, only cataloguing. He spoke only when prompted. Each word measured. Each response precise.
The session ended, and he stood, slowly, deliberately. He offered no apology. He offered no remorse. He merely walked out of the room, leaving the record and the assessment behind, leaving the consequence intact.
And the system would decide from there.
Hospital — Afternoon
The doctor came later—Dr Amrit, calm and precise, explaining recovery timelines, blood loss, and surgical success.
"The knife missed major organs," he said. "You were extremely lucky."
Lucky.
The word sat uneasily with her, settling into her chest like a weight she wasn't sure how to carry. Lucky. She had survived. That alone should have been enough, but the memory of the corridor, the glint of the knife, the sudden darkness—it lingered, sharp, insistent.
After he left, silence filled the room again. Only the hum of the machines and the occasional squeak of the nurse's shoes in the corridor.
Khairul finally spoke.
"You didn't know," he said quietly.
She looked at him, unsure how to answer.
"You didn't know he was out," he clarified. His voice was measured, warm, careful. "None of this is on you."
She shook her head slightly. "I walked alone," she whispered. "I stopped paying attention."
"You lived," he said firmly. "That's all that matters right now."
Her breath hitched, the tight control she had clung to finally cracking. Tears slid soundlessly into the pillow. She turned her face slightly toward him, searching for stability.
He stood, leaning forward, and wrapped his arms around her carefully, mindful of the wires and wounds. She leaned into him without hesitation, forehead pressing into his chest.
For a few seconds, she let herself collapse into the safety of his presence.
"You're here," she murmured. "I… I don't know what I'd do if you weren't."
"You'd still be here," he said, tightening his hold just slightly. "You're stronger than you think."
The door opened again, and her parents stepped in. Her father's eyes softened, wary, scanning her face. Her mother's hands trembled slightly as she reached out to touch Hidayah's hair, brushing it gently back.
"Hello, my brave girl," her mother said, her voice low and trembling despite her restraint.
Hidayah leaned back slightly, letting them in. Her father took the chair across from Khairul, while her mother settled on the other side of the bed, hand hovering lightly over hers.
"You gave us a scare," her father said quietly, his tone even, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed the hours he had spent holding himself together. Both Kamari and his wife were glad to see their baby looking better.
"I know," Hidayah whispered. "I… I didn't mean to worry anyone."
"You didn't mean to get hurt either," her mother said, squeezing her hand lightly. "It wasn't your fault."
Khairul lifted his head slightly, looking at them. "She's safe now," he said. "That's what matters."
Her mother nodded, letting her eyes rest on Hidayah. "We just want you to rest. We'll handle everything else."
"I know," Hidayah said, letting herself exhale a long, shuddering breath she hadn't realised she had been holding.
Her father reached out, brushing her fingers with his own. "We're here. All of us. Together."
For the first time since the attack, Hidayah allowed herself to lean back into the bed fully, letting the support of Khairul and her parents hold her upright. Her head rested against the pillow, her forehead still pressed lightly against Khairul's chest, but now she felt the warmth of her mother's hand and the steadiness of her father's gaze.
"You've all been here," she said softly. "I… I didn't know if I could manage it."
"You didn't have to," Khairul said gently. "We've got you."
Her mother's thumb rubbed circles against the back of her hand. "You're safe. That's what matters."
She let the tears come freely now, sliding down her cheeks, not wiped away. They were not just from fear or pain, but relief, gratitude, and a sudden, overwhelming sense of being protected.
Khairul kissed the top of her head lightly. "You survived. That's enough for today. For tomorrow, we'll figure it out."
Her father gave a small, controlled sigh. "And we'll be right here, every step of the way."
Hidayah shifted slightly, turning to face him, her voice breaking softly. "I… I'm sorry I made you worry. All of you."
"You have nothing to apologise for," her father said firmly. "You were attacked. That's not your fault. None of it is."
Her mother squeezed her hand again. "And you're alive. That's all we need right now."
Khairul rested his cheek against her hair, eyes closed briefly. "You're going to get through this," he whispered. "Every day, one at a time. And we'll be here. Every day."
Hidayah let the words sink in. For the first time in what felt like weeks, she could let herself feel the weight of survival, unshielded. The panic, the fear, the confusion—they were still there, lingering at the edges—but so was this. Safety. Presence. Care.
For a while, they stayed like that, quietly. Hands held, foreheads pressed together, breaths slowly finding a rhythm that wasn't tethered to pain or alarm.
Outside, the sun shifted higher, scattering light across the pale walls. Inside, in that small hospital room, the air was warm, steady, safe.
And for Hidayah, that was enough.
IMH — Continued Assessment
Michael didn't see himself as violent.
That was the problem.
When Dr Tan asked him to recount the incident, he did so with calm deliberation, as if narrating a procedure rather than an assault. He spoke slowly, choosing words that framed the encounter as urgent, necessary, and inevitable.
"She wouldn't stop walking," he said. "She wouldn't listen."
Dr Tan made a neutral note but pressed gently. "And the knife?"
"It was to stop her," Michael replied. "Not to hurt her."
Dr Tan paused, letting the words hang. "You understand that stabbing someone is considered intent to cause serious harm?"
Michael looked genuinely confused, tilting his head slightly. "If I wanted to hurt her," he said, "I would have done it differently."
The words were calm, measured, and almost clinical. There was no hesitation, no tremor of emotion, and no recognition of the danger he had posed. The concept of moral accountability seemed to exist outside his frame of reference.
After the session, Dr Tan wrote her note. Precise. Damning.
Patient demonstrates impaired reality testing, fixed delusional belief system centred on a perceived shared past life with the victim. Belief resistant to contradiction. Exhibits minimisation of violent behaviour and externalisation of responsibility.
Later, alone in his room, Michael lay awake on the narrow bed, staring at the ceiling. The walls were muted and padded at the corners, bare except for the faint institutional pattern of light from the corridor. Everything was contained, controlled—but his mind was elsewhere.
He replayed the moment over and over, not with guilt, not with fear, not with shame, but with grief.
She had looked at him like a stranger.
Not as someone she had known. Not as someone who owed him recognition. Just… unfamiliar. Disconnected.
That was what broke him. Not the intervention. Not the police. Not the hospital.
"They changed you," he whispered into the quiet room. The words were almost reverent, spoken to the ceiling, to the empty space beside him. "But I'll remind you."
His fists rested at his sides, rigid and unrelenting. There was no trembling. No collapse. Only the slow, deliberate replaying of perceived wrongs, the careful mapping of what he thought had been lost—and what he intended to restore.
The room was silent except for the faint hum of the ventilation.
No one could enter his mind, and yet, in its shadows, Michael had already begun planning, rehearsing, and convincing himself of inevitability. He was contained by walls and rules, but not by understanding.
And that, Dr Tan noted, was the real danger.
Hospital — Evening
Officer Shahrizal returned once more before nightfall.
"We'll proceed with charges," he told Hidayah, his tone formal but steady. "There will be court directions once the psychiatric evaluation concludes."
"Will he be released again?" she asked, voice low, almost hesitant.
He met her gaze squarely, careful but unwavering. "Not without strict conditions," he said. "And not without you being informed. You will have every measure of protection the law allows."
She nodded slowly, feeling the weight of his words settle into something tangible. Not fear. Not anger. Just clarity.
As he left, Khairul squeezed her hand gently, careful not to press too hard against the tender IV lines. "You're not alone anymore," he said softly.
She looked at him, letting the certainty of that statement reach her. For the first time since the attack, she believed it. Not as a promise. Not as a hope. But as a truth she could hold onto in the quiet of the hospital room.
Outside, night settled over the city, lights flickering across empty streets, a rhythm of life continuing even after chaos.
In one building, a young woman was healing. Her breaths came easier now. Her fingers relaxed. Her heart, still cautious, had begun to trust the presence beside her.
In another, a young man sat alone, clinging to a reality that no longer existed, trapped in thought and belief, contained by walls and law.
The distance between them—measured now in legal authority, steel doors, and consequence—was the only thing keeping her alive. And for the first time in days, she felt the smallest measure of peace.
Khairul leaned closer, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. "Tomorrow," he said, "we take it one day at a time. Together."
She allowed herself a faint, tired smile. "Together," she repeated.
And the room held them there, quiet, safe, the night pressing in from outside but not touching them.