Chapter 30 : The Weight of Forgiveness and the silence between us

Next morning.

The smell of nasi lemak and freshly brewed teh tarik fills the air.

The house is quiet. Not awkwardly so—just... unnaturally still. Even Hana, who’s usually buzzing around by now, is quietly nibbling her breakfast like a cat trying not to knock anything over.

Across the table, Sylvia sits with perfect posture. Chin resting on her palm. Her spoon untouched. But her eyes?

They're locked on me.

Not lovingly.
Not accusingly.
Just... watching.

Like she’s trying to read between my thoughts.

She knows.

I don’t need to ask.
I can feel it in the way she keeps glancing toward my hands—maybe remembering how they moved last night… how unforgiving they looked under that flickering gym light.

I scoop a bit of rice into my mouth, chew slowly, not looking up.

She followed me last night. I knew she was there.

But she didn’t say anything. Not when we got home. Not when I lay next to her. Not even when I turned my back toward the wall and pretended to sleep.

She just... let me be.

That silence?

It’s worse than shouting.

Flashback – Last Night

The walk back from backyard was short, but it felt like I was dragging shadows behind me.

Sylvia is not her normal self.

Didn’t speak.

Not a word.

When we got into the house, she went straight to the shower. I waited. Expected something.

But the only sound was the water running, and the cold echo in my chest.

Even Hana, who usually nags me about staying out late, just passed by with her usual "good night" and closed her door.

Do they all see me differently now?

Back to the Present – Morning Table

Mom enters the kitchen, tying her batik apron tighter.

She notices the strange atmosphere instantly. Her eyes move from Sylvia, then to me, then back again.

She doesn’t comment—at first.

But as she sets down a tray of kuih and sits beside me, she casually drops the bomb:

“I heard from Sylvia that you got into some trouble?”

I pause mid-bite.

So she did talk.

My eyes flick toward Sylvia for a split second. She doesn't flinch. Just keeps stirring her tea, like she’s not involved at all.

“Yeah…” I mutter, setting down my spoon. “That’s my bad.”

Mom exhales gently, not scolding. Not angry. Just…tried to understand.

“Alex, I know you’ve been through a lot. But forgiveness isn’t just something others need to earn.”

She looks at me directly now, with that same warmth that somehow makes you feel guilty even when you’re trying to be cold.

“You need to learn to open up, too.”

I look away, down at my half-finished plate.

Open up?

To what?

To the anger? The fear? that Soro keeps sharpening inside me?

No.

Not yet.

I get up quietly and grab my bag.

“I’ll be out,” I say without waiting for a reply.

Behind me, I hear Sylvia finally speak.

But not to me.

Sylvia breaks the silence, her voice barely louder than a whisper.

“It’s okay, mother… he just needs space.”

It stings, the way she says it so calmly. Like she's already accepted the distance I’m building between us.

Mom doesn’t answer right away. She glances at me—eyes soft, maternal, the kind of look that sees everything even when nothing is said.

“I know,” she finally replies.

Those two words.

They land heavier than a whole lecture.

Because she does know.

She knows I’m spiraling somewhere inside myself, trying to crawl out of the shadows without pulling everyone in with me.
She knows I'm lost between guilt, rage, and something darker I don’t even want to name.

I want to forgive... I really do.
But something inside still holds on to the pain. Still clenches my heart shut like a fist.

Suddenly—SMACK!

A solid thump lands on my head like a hammer falling from the sky.

“OW—!! WHAT THE HECK WAS THAT FOR?!”

My hands fly up to the top of my head as I recoil, spinning around to see Mom standing there, her hand still raised dramatically like she just finished a finisher move in a fighting game.

Her face?

Smirking like a mischievous RPG boss who knows exactly what she’s doing.

“Too gloomy,” she says simply. “You’re poisoning the rice.”

I gape at her.

“What kind of logic is that?!”

Sylvia lets out a sudden snort—her first real laugh since last night. She quickly covers her mouth, but it’s too late.

Hana starts giggling too, swaying slightly in her seat like she’s watching a skit on YouTube.

“You were kinda turning the whole room into a sad drama flashback,” Hana chimes in, giving me that trademark little sister grin.

I sigh, but a reluctant smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. Just a little.

The heaviness lifts.

Just enough.

Maybe I don’t need to carry everything alone.

After that whole breakfast drama finally dies down, I head to the hallway to grab my helmet and keys—still rubbing my head like it holds the secrets of the universe.

Dad steps out from his room, dressed in his usual Friday shirt and acting like the world’s calmest observer.

“Looks like you’re all good now.”

…Yeah. All good.
Except for the giant mom-shaped crater on my skull.

Seriously, if head trauma was an Olympic sport, my mother would’ve won gold and got sponsorship.

“Yep, just a normal morning. Minor concussion and a bruised ego,” I mutter under my breath.

That’s when she shows up.

Like she always does—when I least expect it, and always when I'm most off-guard.

Sylvia.

Walking in like she owns the air itself. A sly grin curling on her lips. Her hair tied up in a loose ponytail, eyes gleaming with that dangerously teasing energy I’ve come to fear.

“You know,” she says sweetly, “if you keep acting all moody and gloomy… you might actually turn into a girl instead of a boy.”

She lets out a mischievous giggle.

And just like clockwork—

“Big brother is such a girly~!”
—Hana.
Appearing from behind Sylvia like a sidekick with perfect comedic timing.

Are these two secretly rehearsing this routine every morning or something?

I groan, half-exasperated, half-amused. “Yeah, yeah—sorry about it, okay?!”

Still rubbing my head, I reach over and ruffle Hana’s hair violently until it turns into a glorified bird’s nest.

“Hey—!! STOP! Stoooop it!!” she squeals, laughing and trying to escape my hand.

I’m about to let go when—

BAM.

A sharp, precise pain lands where no light should shine.

Time slows.

My soul leaves my body.

“Wh—AT… THE… HELL… WAS… THAT… FOR?!!”

I drop to one knee, clutching my pride and dignity, both rapidly fading.

Standing there, with one leg still extended in finishing pose, is none other than—

Sylvia.

Smiling like she just saved a puppy and kicked a villain all in one move.

“That’s what you get for being a bully,” she says cheerfully, dusting off her skirt.

I am literally the victim here. But no one cares.

Right now, I’m pretty sure I’m the one being bullied by the whole household.

As I limp toward the door, still planning to ride out of here like a tragic anti-hero on his scrappy bike, I reach into my pocket for my keys—

And they’re gone.

“Wait… where are my—?”

Clink.

Sylvia tosses something.

Straight to Mom.

“You don’t need this today,” Sylvia says, tossing my keys with a grin.

Mom catches them midair like a pro.

“Good girl,” she says, eyes locked on me with military-level intensity. “Make sure this boy doesn’t do anything stupid.”

I freeze.

Two pairs of eyes lock onto me like heat-seeking missiles.

Sylvia’s smile turns sharper.

Mom’s glare intensifies.

Yep. I’m officially grounded by women with power levels over 9000.

I sigh.

“I’m just gonna sit here and reflect on my choices now…”

We both wave at Mom and Dad as they drive off toward town. The car turns the corner, leaving behind a trail of early-morning sunlight reflecting off the windshield.

Sam, wrapped like a little burrito in his baby carrier, sticks his chubby hand out in our direction and waves—well, kinda flops his hand.

“Look at that… already commanding attention,” I mutter.

Sylvia chuckles beside me, her schoolbag slung neatly over one shoulder. Her bob hair sways as she waves back at Sam with both hands, the same way someone would wave to a departing cruise ship.

“He’s the boss in this house. We just work for him.”

Tama steps out of her room, schoolbag neatly strapped to her back. Her hair’s tied into a low braid, and she moves with that unshakable quiet grace like always.

Behind her is Steward, the walking paradox: fully dressed in his blazer, book in one hand, toast in the other, eyes glued to the pages as he walks straight toward the gate—without once looking up.

“If he hits the mailbox again, I’m not carrying him to school,” I mumble.

Hana walks beside him, arms crossed, looking like she’s holding back a whole PowerPoint presentation of complaints.

“Oi, Steward. You’re gonna fall into a drain one day and I’m not even calling the ambulance.”

“That’s fine,” Steward mutters. “The drain is where knowledge flows.”

“That's not even clever!!”

And then—

“TAMAAA!!”

A blur of excitement dashes in from the corner of the street.

Enter Hazlan, late as usual, running like the last person catching the LRT. He nearly trips on a rock but somehow regains balance, flinging his bag behind him like a cape.

He skids to a stop right in front of Tama, panting, cheeks already flushed pink like someone turned up the love filter.

“Hi, Tama…” he breathes out.

Tama smiles at him, gently. Sparkles might as well float around her.

Yeah. He's doomed.

Hazlan turns to me, trying to play it cool.

“Nice day, right?”

I stare at him blankly.

“You’re literally sweating through your collar.”

“It’s—uh—warm morning breeze?”

Sylvia leans in, arms crossed.

“Warm with a 90% chance of crush-induced anxiety.”

Hazlan stutters something incoherent and retreats toward Tama, nearly walking into Steward’s book.

“Careful,” Steward mutters, not even looking up. “Love blinds.”

I sigh and sling my bag over my shoulder.

“This house is turning into a full-on rom-com ensemble cast.”

Sylvia nudges my arm as we start walking.

“So what does that make us? The edgy couple with unresolved tension?”

I glance sideways at her. Her smirk is playful, but her eyes linger a bit longer than usual.

“We’re… the wildcard duo.”

“Hmm. As long as I get more screen time than Steward.”

“You're already kicking people in the nuts. I think you’re the fan-favorite.”

She laughs, and just like that—the weight in my chest lightens a bit.

The bus pulls up right on time with a loud squeal of brakes and a puff of diesel smoke.

As the doors hiss open, the familiar grinning face of the driver greets me.

“Oi? Ain’t you the guy who usually rides that loud bike? What, engine ran outta courage?”

I roll my eyes. “Funny.”

Before I can clap back properly, Sylvia steps in with her usual sass, arms crossed and one brow arched like a judge about to issue a sentence.

“He’s just trying to act like a student for once, instead of pretending he’s some middle-aged vigilante.”

Huh?!

I turn to her. “What’s that supposed to mean?!”

The bus driver cackles like he just heard the joke of the century.

“Well hey, it saves you fuel money! Hahahaha! Keep it up, ‘young man’!”

I grumble under my breath and board the bus.

Yeah, yeah… laugh it up, old man. But he's not wrong. Gas prices aren't getting any friendlier.

We step inside. The morning chatter hums like background noise from an upbeat anime intro.

Right as I settle in, a familiar voice calls from the back.

“Captain!! Morning!!”

I turn and see Jackson, one of my teammates from the basketball club, waving like he’s trying to flag a helicopter.

“Yo! What’s up?” I call back.

He jogs over and drops into the seat behind me.

“There was a match a few days ago! We drew against the school from Inanam. Tough game—but we held our own!”

I nod. “Nice. That’s a solid result.”

He scratches his head. “Still… not the same without our captain.”

I chuckle and lean back. “You handled it. You’ve got this.”

He grins like a proud golden retriever and heads back to his seat, tossing me a fist pump I casually return.

Seating layout: Sylvia is beside me, flipping through her English lit notes with laser focus. Glasses perched delicately on her nose. Hair tied up. Her blazer neatly draped. She radiates that quiet elegance of a girl who's both beautiful and scary smart.

I sneak a glance.

She looks cute like this…

But no way I’m saying that out loud.
Not after this morning’s nut-kick incident.
Not if I value my life.

Across the aisle, Hana and Steward are having their usual sibling-grade debate.

“No, I’m not sharing my snacks unless you admit pandas aren’t bears,” Steward declares, pushing his glasses up like some pint-sized scholar.

“They’re literally called panda bears, you dork!” Hana fires back.

Their argument fades into the background as I return my eyes to the window.

The bus moves along. Sunlight pours in through the smudged windows.

For now… everything feels almost normal.

Side Story: Sylvia’s Perspective –

We’re sitting together.
Side by side.

Alex leans back in his seat like everything’s fine—laughing with Jackson, teasing Hana, even arguing playfully with Steward about some dumb fact he probably got from Wikipedia.

But I know that smile.
That perfectly rehearsed, nonchalant grin.

He wears it when he doesn’t want people to ask questions.

Even now… even when I’m right next to him… I can feel it.

There’s a part of him that’s drifting somewhere else.

Flashback – Last Week, After the Basketball Match

It had been a good day.

Alex had played a clean game—even if he refused to rejoin the team formally. The sun was setting, the crowd was dispersing, and we were all still riding the post-match buzz.

Pris and Siti, as usual, were busy bickering about who got to sit next to him during the after-party.

“You had your turn during lunch! Now it’s mine!”
“Girl, he literally handed me the water bottle—there’s chemistry!”
“You want chemistry? Go study the periodic table!”

I roll my eyes, sipping on my drink as the chaos continues.

Then I glance around.

“Wait… where’s Alex?”

I scan the crowd.
The benches.
Even the vending machine corner.

Gone.

Back at Home – That Evening

Mom’s cooking in the kitchen with Dad helping her chop vegetables—like a rare solar eclipse. Meanwhile, Pris and Siti are still at it, now arguing over who gets to help serve Alex’s rice when he gets home.

As if I'm going to let either of them try anything.

“He likes his curry a little spicy, right?” Siti smirks.

“He likes me more spicy,” Priscilla shoots back, blowing a kiss into the air.

I sigh and shake my head.

Just as I’m preparing to tell them to stop acting like side characters in a reverse harem anime—

“Big sis!! There’s someone outside!!”

Hana’s voice echoes from the living room.

I freeze.

My chopsticks hover above the table as I rush to the window, pulling the curtain aside just enough to see through.

Outside—at our front gate—stands a figure.

Tall.

Hands in his pockets.

Surrounded by two unfamiliar boys, both wearing smug looks and messy uniforms.

Shinji.

What the hell does he want… coming to our house?

Priscilla clenches her fists tight, her knuckles whitening.

“What the bloody hell’s goin’ on here…? Why’s Shinji showin’ up outta nowhere?”
“If that punk’s startin’ trouble, I swear he’s gonna cop a right whack—with interest.”

Her voice trembles with that rare London twang she whips out when she’s pissed.
Which means, yeah… Shinji's already doomed.

Beside her, Siti grabs the nearest weapon she can find—a broomstick, worn and splintered at the handle like it’s seen multiple wars.

“I heard he’s been creeping around school. Trying to harass you again, Syl. That little junior needs a lesson in manners.”

Behind us, Hana clenches her tiny fists, trying to puff herself up like a mini bodyguard.

“Big sis!! I can help! I’ll kick him in the shins and run!”

God, she’s adorable. But also, kinda terrifying when she’s serious.

Mom glances out the window and immediately reaches for her phone.

“I’m calling the police!”

“Wait,” Dad mutters, stepping closer. His face tightens. “This could get bad. Stay inside.”

But I shake my head and place a hand gently on his shoulder.

“Don’t worry, Dad. I’ve got this.”
“These goons… they forgot who they’re messing with.”

I step outside. The sunlight hits me like a spotlight.

Priscilla follows without hesitation, stepping up beside me like we’re part of a tag-team. She cracks her knuckles loud enough to scare birds off nearby trees.

Shinji stands at the gate with two shady-looking punks at his side—grinning like this is some kind of power play.

He pauses the moment he sees us.

“Well, well… two for the price of one?” he says, voice oily. “Now that’s interesting.”

My blood runs cold—but I keep my stance steady.

The two goons inch forward toward the gate, cocky, confident—

Too confident.

Then—

Pfffft—THWACK!

A dart zips through the air and plants itself into the neck of the left goon.
The guy stumbles, yelping, swatting at it like a mosquito before collapsing on one knee.

Tama stands calmly near the side bushes, holding her traditional blowpipe like she’s in a spy movie.

“They looked dangerous,” she says, like she’s commenting on the weather.

Panic.
The second goon backs up immediately, trying to drag his buddy to safety.

Shinji’s eyes go wide.

He reaches into his pocket and—

Glint of metal. A pistol.

Shit!

I move instinctively.

With a burst of adrenaline, I vault over the gate like an acrobat, flip midair, and slam my boot straight into Shinji’s face with a spinning kick.

CRACK!

His head snaps back. He crashes into the pavement, rolling across the ground like a ragdoll.

The pistol clatters away, skidding across the concrete.

I land on my feet.

Wind in my hair.

Adrenaline in my blood.

The entire street goes quiet.

Only the chirp of birds and the heavy breathing of the now-unconscious goon remains.

I glance down at Shinji, groaning in pain, blood trickling from his lip.

I stare down at Shinji’s bruised face as he writhes on the ground.

The pistol he tried to pull is still spinning nearby, cold and harmless now.

“You bring a gun… to my house?” I say, voice low and sharp as broken glass. “You guys never learn, do you?”

But this time… something feels different.

The goons standing behind Shinji—they’re not the usual street rats from town. Their stance is tighter. Their movement more coordinated. Their accents…

They start yelling at each other in Peninsular Malay dialects, mixed with crude slang.

“Weh! Jangan bagi dia lari! Tangkap je terus!”

“Perempuan ni banyak cakap la, tak takut langsung!”

One of them smirks, spitting on the ground.

“This bitch is feisty! Get her!!”

Bad idea.

Just as they lunge, Priscilla leaps forward like a missile—eyes blazing, mouth curled into a war-hardened grin.

“Oh, you picked the wrong goddamn day, mate.”

She slams into one of the goons mid-run with a full-on rugby tackle that flips him midair, before twisting into a savage Full Nelson Slam that rattles the entire driveway.

CRACK!

The guy coughs up blood as he hits the pavement, limbs twitching from the impact.

Another goon screams—“Ameer!!! Kurang ajar!!”

Finally. Some Malay I can understand.

“Pukima!!!” one of them roars, charging toward me with a metal rod.

Too slow.

I spin, pivot on my heel, and deliver a clean, snapping roundhouse kick right to the side of his head.

WHACK!

He spins midair before collapsing like a sack of bricks—eyes rolled back, mouth drooling, unconscious before he hits the ground.

“Next time, pick your words and your fight better.”

The driveway turns into a battlefield.

Tama reloads another dart in the distance. Hana and Steward hide behind the curtain, watching wide-eyed like it’s their favorite anime playing out live. Siti stands by the porch with her broomstick raised like she’s waiting for her cue to jump in. Even Mom’s holding her phone, half-dialed to the police, half-frozen in disbelief.

Shinji tries to get up again, blood dripping from his nose.

“Wh-What are you all… monsters…?”

I crack my knuckles.

“Nah. We’re just really, really tired of your face.”

Without hesitation, I drive my fist straight into Shinji’s face.
His head snaps back like a bobblehead.
But before he can even stagger—

“Oi! Gotcha, punk!”

Priscilla rushes in from behind and lifts him effortlessly, flipping him over her shoulder in one fluid motion.

SCOOP SLAM!!

BAM!!
Shinji hits the concrete with a solid thud, bouncing once before going completely limp.

“Tosser’s out cold,” Priscilla mutters, dusting off her hands.

The tension drops. For a second, it feels like it’s finally over.
The chaos. The shouting. The swinging fists and blood on pavement.

But no.

We hear it.

Footsteps. Heavy. Organized. Mean.

A second group rounds the corner.
Reinforcements.

More thugs—at least eight of them.
And this time, they're worse.
Not just schoolyard trash. These ones move with intent. Dressed rough, mean-eyed, some with tattoos curling up their necks, and all speaking a harsher, guttural dialect I haven’t heard in a while—

Kuala Lumpur street slang.

Something clicks in my chest.

Just like the ones Dad warned me about… the ones from his old life.

Before I can even fully process the memory—

They rush.

But we don’t wait.

Me, Priscilla, Siti, and even Tama—blowpipe already locked and loaded—burst into action like we’re reenacting the final scene of a martial arts movie.

Priscilla takes down two of them like a bulldozer with legs.
Siti jumps off the railing with her broom like a freaking kendo master.
Tama downs one with a dart between the eyes before ducking behind a tree and reloading.

Me?

I sweep one off his feet, slam my elbow into another’s chest, and roundhouse the third into a trash bin with such force it flips over.

Steel clatters. Groans fill the air. Shoes fly off. Someone even loses a gold chain mid-slam.

Within minutes—

Silence.

They’re down.
All of them.
Unconscious bodies sprawled around the yard like fallen NPCs after a raid.

Then—

“Are you kids okay?!”

Across the street, our neighbor—the Al-Quran teacher’s Mr Habeeb’s wife—rushes out with concern plastered across her face.

“I’m calling my husband! He’s calling the police!”

She scurries back into her house, her voice echoing off the walls.

Finally. It’s over. My shoulders drop. I let out a long breath.

We won… right?

But just as the adrenaline starts to fade—

The air shifts.

Cold.
Sudden.
Wrong.

My vision flickers, like static washing over the edges.

What—?

I stumble slightly, feeling the blood drain from my face.

Everything warps around me like underwater haze.

“Sylvia! SYLVIA!!” I barely hear Priscilla’s voice, panicked and distant.

I turn just in time to see her face twist in anger—

“Bugger it! Bastard!! How dare ya hurt me mate!!”

Then—

CRACK!!

Priscilla’s body collapses beside me, her head snapping sideways from an unseen hit.

What?!

A silhouette steps into view.

Slim. Precise.
Uniformed in black. Combat boots. Gloves. No wasted motion.

A girl.

Not one of Shinji’s gang. Not part of the neighborhood.

She walks with eerie calm, tilting her head at me like a curious predator.

And as I look up at her face—

My vision turn dark

That face… I’ve seen it before…

The same eyes.

The same hair.

The same cold, perfect symmetry.

A clone…?

Darkness.
My head spins. The air smells like rust, oil, and something chemical.

I stir.

My wrists—bound. Ankles too. Straps. Leather. Cold steel frame beneath me.

A bed?

No… more like a cot in some abandoned medical room. A single flickering bulb buzzes above me like a mosquito from hell.

Then—
A voice.

Shinji.

He’s standing at the far end of the room, back to me, phone pressed to his ear. His tone is calm, disturbingly casual.

“Yo… hey. Is that you?”

He taps the screen, putting the call on speaker.

A pause.

Then—

“How did you get this number?”

Alex.

Alex?! What the hell is going on?!

I tug against the restraints, struggling to sit up. Panic surges like electricity through my veins.

Suddenly, someone behind me grips my arm tightly.

“Shut up!”

SLAP!

Pain explodes across my cheek. My vision swims.

“ALEX!!” I scream with everything I’ve got.
“THEY’RE TRYING TO GET YOU!! IT’S A TRAP!!”

Another figure lunges forward, shoving a cloth over my face. It smells sweet and sharp and wrong.

No—no, no, no—
Please not again—

My limbs go limp.
The world warps again. Sound fades to muffled echoes.

But I catch fragments of the call.

“So, what’s your point here?”
Alex’s voice—distant, but cold. Controlled.

“Come with me… to this place. Warehouse 11. Sepanggar Harbour.”
“...Got it.”

The phone clicks.

Silence.

Darkness again.

Time passes. Or maybe seconds.

My body is heavy. But I’m awake.

My eyes flutter open. The light still flickers.

Shinji is near. Too close.

His hands tremble. His eyes unfocused. His breath smells like alcohol.

His hands are on my shoulders.

No… no no no no—

My voice won’t come out.

“A-Alex… Alex… please… help me… Save me…”

Tears roll down my cheeks as I close my eyes—just to make it all go away.

Then—

CRASH!!!

A door SLAMS open.

Shouts.

“SHIT!!”

Gunfire.
Loud. Sharp. Real.

A body slams into a wall. Another thud. Screams.

My heart races—but something in me dares to hope.

Footsteps. Rushing toward me.

Then—

Warmth.

Arms wrap around me. Gently. Carefully.

“Sylvia.”

That voice.

That warmth.

I force my eyes open.

Through blurry tears, I see him.

Alex.

Blood on his shirt. Dust in his hair. Fury in his eyes. But now?
Now they soften—because he’s looking at me.

“I’m here.”

I try to smile. I can’t.

But I let myself go.

Because he came.

He heard me.

And then—darkness again.

But this time… I’m not afraid.

My head rests against someone’s shoulder.
The world around me sways, like I’m floating.

Warmth surrounds me.
A steady heartbeat.
The sound of wind.

“Umm… ugh… Alex?”

My voice is barely a whisper.
He doesn’t respond right away. But I feel it—his hands holding me firmly as I’m carried on his back.

Piggyback.

So warm. So strong.

I blink slowly, the streetlights passing overhead in blurry streaks.

“You’ve got… a big back, you know that?”

He doesn’t answer—just shifts slightly to hold me better.

The weight of what just happened starts to crash over me like a wave.

My fists tighten around his shoulders.
Tears well up again—silent this time.

“Sorry…” I whisper.

Alex exhales softly.

“It’s cool…”

But it’s not.
Not to me.

I buried my pride somewhere back in that warehouse.
I wanted to fight.
I wanted to protect myself.
And yet—here I am.

Broken. Shaken.
Cradled on the back of the boy I didn’t want to cry in front of.

“I hate it…” I mumble, burying my face into his shoulder.

“Hey,” he says gently, “that’s enough… As long as you’re safe, I’m glad.”

His voice—quiet, steady—makes something inside me crumble and melt at the same time.

I blink again, wiping my eyes against his shirt sleeve.

“Are Mother and Father okay? Hana, Sam… Priscilla, Siti… Tama…?”

He doesn’t answer.

Just silence.

That hesitation…
That stupid silence…

I frown.

“Dumbass.”

I whisper it without heat.
Because I know what he’s trying to do.
Shield me.
Carry me.
Even from the truth.

The world becomes clearer as the roar of an engine hums beneath us.

I realize now—

We’re on his bike.
I’m still on his back, arms looped around his neck.

Wind whips through my hair.
Streetlights flicker past.

Ahead, I hear voices.

Mariam and Amin, riding tandem behind us on another bike. They're talking—but not too loudly. Their voices drift through the wind.

“He was holding her like she’s the most precious thing in the world,” Mariam says, smiling.

“Well, duh. He didn’t just save her—he went full action movie mode,” Amin replies.

“Still… look at him. He’s shaking. But he’s still pretending he’s fine.”

“Yeah… that’s Alex for you.”

I want to smile—but I can’t.

Alex’s phone rings.

He answers quickly.

“Yeah, it’s me… They’re safe. Keep everyone inside. Don’t panic.”
“I’ve got Sylvia. I’m bringing her back now.”

His tone is calm. Composed.

But I can hear the fatigue underneath it.
The pain he’s not showing.
The weight he's carrying.

And I hate that I’m part of that weight.

I rest my head against him again, listening to his heartbeat.

Even if I can't take the pain away…

At least let me be close enough to share it.

We finally arrive home.

The air is warm. Familiar. Safe.

The moment the gate opens, we’re engulfed by arms and voices—Mom, Dad, Hana, Sam, even Tama, Siti, and Steward all rush out.

Tears. Laughter. Hugs.

Even though I’m tired, and my heart feels like it’s been wrung dry, I let myself be held. Because I’m safe. We’re safe.

And Alex…

Alex is right behind me.

He says nothing, but gives me the softest glance.

And then… he walks toward the back quietly, like a shadow dissolving into night.

Later that night

I can’t sleep.

The adrenaline’s gone, but my body still buzzes with leftover fear.

I lie in bed, curled under the blanket. Alex hasn’t said a word since we returned. He disappeared into his room.

Maybe he just needs rest…

I close my eyes.

Then—
A shout.

“HEY!! BRO—!! SHIT!!!”

It’s Amin.

I bolt upright. So does Mariam, who’s already grabbing her jacket.

We rush to the back of the house.

There—under the pale porch light—

Amin is kneeling beside Alex, who’s collapsed on the ground.

“What happened, babe?!” Mariam gasps, hands to her mouth.

Amin looks up at us, his voice shaking.

“He just—he just went down! I thought he was just sitting—SHIT!!”

His hand lifts.

Blood.

Dark. Wet. Staining Amin’s palm.

My heart stops.

I stare at Alex’s back—

A single bullet falls from his hoodie and hits the concrete with a metallic clink.

A bullet?!

How long has that been inside him?!

My knees hit the ground next to him before I even realize it.

“Alex!! ALEX!!” I shake him. His face is pale. Breathing shallow. “Please—say something!!”

Mariam dashes inside for the first aid kit.

“MOTHER!! DAD!! HE’S BLEEDING!!”

The house erupts in panic.

Dad runs out in his slippers, eyes wide with horror.

Mom is right behind him, already calling the neighbor—the family doctor who lives three houses down.

I press the gauze onto his back, but the wound is deep.

Blood soaks through instantly.

“No—no no no please stay with me—don’t close your eyes—don’t—!”

My tears drop onto his shoulder.

I can’t stop shaking.

I thought we were safe.
I thought this was over.

“This is… this is my fault…” Dad murmurs, hands trembling as he watches the scene.

Mom grits her teeth.

“No, Man. No. He’s strong. He’s always been strong. And he’s always protected this family.”

There’s a sharp knock at the gate. The neighbor rushes in, still half in pajamas, with a doctor’s bag in hand.

“Let me take a look—move aside, everyone!”

He kneels over Alex, gently turning him, examining the wound with professional speed.

The room goes silent except for the low buzz of the ceiling fan and my choked sobs.

Seconds pass.

Minutes.

Then, finally—

“He’s… stable,” the doctor says.

I exhale. My legs collapse under me.

“The bleeding’s stopped… and… wait…”

He lifts the gauze.

“This is… incredible.”

We all lean in.

The bullet wound—though clearly real—looks like it’s already starting to seal, as if Alex’s body is healing faster than it should.

The skin around it is already stitching itself, pulsing faintly like a wound being rewound in time.

The doctor looks up.

“This is beyond medicine. I’ve never seen anything like this.”

Mom’s eyes narrow, calm but unreadable.

“Then… there’s no need to take him to the hospital.”

“Honey—” Dad begins.

But I already know.

I’ve always known.

There’s something different about Alex.
Something Mom and Dad won’t say.
Something... not entirely human.

I grip his hand tightly.

And whatever it is… it’s already changing everything.

To be continued