The courtroom was colder than Hidayah expected.
Not in temperature—the air-conditioning hummed at a regulated, indifferent level—but in tone. Everything here was measured. Voices softened. Footsteps restrained. Even the benches seemed designed to discourage comfort, as if the body should not forget where it was.
She sat between her parents, her mother's hand folded tightly around hers, her father upright and still, eyes forward. Khairul sat a row behind them, close enough that she could feel his presence without turning around. He did not reach for her. He did not speak. He stayed exactly where she needed him to be—solid, unmoving, alert.
Michael stood in the dock.
He looked thinner than she remembered. His hair was trimmed shorter but uneven, as if he had stopped midway. His face was paler, almost translucent, but his eyes burnt with a brightness that did not soften when they landed on her. When he saw her, something moved across his expression—an almost imperceptible flicker—not anger, not fear. Recognition. Relief. As if the day's proceedings confirmed a truth he had already decided was his alone.
Hidayah looked away.
The charges were read first.
The words sounded clinical when spoken aloud, stripped of blood, of terror, of nights replaying footsteps behind her: voluntarily causing grievous hurt with a dangerous weapon; criminal intimidation; multiple breaches of a Personal Protection Order. Each count laid out carefully, unemotionally, and precisely.
Michael stood still throughout. When asked if he understood the charges, he nodded once.
"Yes," he said calmly.
Too calmly.
The defence did not contest the facts.
Instead, they submitted psychiatric reports.
Two psychiatrists from the Institute of Mental Health were called. Their language was careful and deliberate—the language of people who understood that every word carried weight.
"Michael Ng Kok Hui, aged twenty," one began. "Diagnosed with a chronic delusional disorder, with fixed identity-based delusions centring on the belief that he and the victim shared a prior life, a destined bond that supersedes present reality. These beliefs are systematised, persistent, and resistant to challenge. He does not perceive his actions as wrong. He perceives them as necessary."
The report continued.
While Michael possessed basic awareness of his physical surroundings, he lacked the capacity to fully appreciate the moral wrongfulness of his conduct at the time of the offences. His actions were driven not by malice in the conventional sense, but by an internally consistent—and profoundly dangerous—belief system.
The second psychiatrist spoke next.
Risk assessment: high. Risk of reoffending: high, particularly toward a specific individual. Community management: not viable.
The words landed quietly, almost muted, but each one felt like a door closing.
The prosecution did not argue for imprisonment. They argued for containment. For safety. For the reality that some harm could not be remedied by punishment alone.
The judge listened without interruption. When she finally spoke, her voice was level and unhurried, carrying neither spectacle nor drama.
She acknowledged the seriousness of the harm caused. The repeated breaches. The escalation despite interventions. She acknowledged that the law must protect the public—and that punishment alone would not suffice in this case.
Michael Ng Kok Hui was found not criminally responsible under Section 84 of the Penal Code, on account of unsoundness of mind at the material time.
But he was not free.
Under the Mental Health Act, the court ordered that Michael be committed to the Institute of Mental Health for detention and treatment until further order of the court.
No release date.
No timeline.
No promises.
The judge's gaze moved briefly toward Hidayah.
"This order is made," she said, "because the court is satisfied that the accused poses an ongoing danger to the victim and to the public, and that his condition requires secure treatment."
The gavel came down.
That was it.
No dramatic outburst. No shouting. No collapse.
Michael smiled. Small, restrained—but unmistakable. As officers approached him, he turned his head just enough to look at Hidayah again.
"They still don't understand," he said quietly, almost conversationally. "But they will."
He allowed himself to be led away without resistance.
Only once the door closed behind him did the tension release from the room.
Hidayah did not realise she was shaking until her mother pulled her into an embrace, arms firm, grounding.
"It's over," her mother whispered, though her voice trembled. "It's over."
Hidayah nodded, but the word felt too simple for what had just happened.
Over was not the right word.
Contained, maybe. Removed. Suspended in a place where time no longer moved forward in the usual way.
Her father rested a hand lightly on her shoulder. "You're safe now," he said. "That's what matters."
Later, in a quiet consultation room, the lead psychiatrist explained the order again, more gently this time.
"Michael will remain in a secure ward," the psychiatrist said, "his condition reviewed periodically. Release will require clear, sustained remission—and even then, strict conditions. Given the nature of his delusions and the severity of the violence, the likelihood of release is low. He may be there for many years. Possibly indefinitely."
Hidayah listened, absorbing the words not with fear, but with a strange, hollow calm. Indefinitely. It did not feel like justice. It felt like an ending that refused to end cleanly.
That night, Khairul came over quietly. Her parents did not object. He was already part of the family now—not a visitor, but someone who belonged in moments like this.
Hidayah sat on the edge of the bed, exhaustion pulling at her bones. Khairul knelt in front of her, resting his hands lightly on her knees, careful not to overstep.
"It's done," he said softly.
She nodded, and then—finally—she broke.
It was not loud. No sobs. Just tears slipping down her face, one after another, as the weight of months, vigilance, and fear finally loosened its grip.
Khairul wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. She clung to him, fingers digging into his shirt, breathing in the steadiness of him.
"I'm here," he murmured. "I've got you."
She believed him.
Miles away, in a locked ward at IMH, Michael sat on his bed, listening to the hum of fluorescent lights. The room was bare. The door is heavy. The rules are absolute.
The doctor had explained the order to him, slowly and patiently, as if speaking to a child. Indefinite detention. Treatment. No contact.
Michael smiled faintly. They could keep him here. They could medicate him, observe him, and write reports about him.
But they could not erase what he knew.
Hidayah would remember. She always did.
And when she did, this place—this pause—would only prove how far they were willing to go to keep them apart.
He lay back and closed his eyes.
Waiting.