Everything stopped. Time, breath, noise—all gone in the instant he saw her. Iyaan's spine locked up, rooted in place. He stared from across the café, and in that bleached moment he wondered if he was asleep or dead.

Nur sat with her elbow perched perfectly on her table, right in front of his, a mug between her hands. She smiled—too neat, almost sculpted, and dangerous in the way broken glass is dangerous. Did she see him? It didn't matter. Even if she hadn't yet, she would.

His mouth twitched. "No. Not here," barely a thought, not a sound.

She tipped her head. That smile—fake, loaded, like she knew every secret he'd ever tried to bury. Her eyes? Ice, black and cold. Never blinked. He shivered. Nobody else in the café seemed to notice what he did, what he felt snaking down his spine. They all just lived in their soft little bubbles.

She belonged nowhere near this downtown coffee shop, nowhere near his second chance at a life. She belonged in the twisted past he left behind, back in that city of Malaysia he had wrung out of his entirety—never in this city, not in this café.

He had to move, now. Get out. The air was gone from his lungs. He pushed his chair so hard it shrieked over the tiles. Eyes darted up. A blonde guy with headphones. Barista at the machine. He didn't care—couldn't care.

"Shit," he cursed, his voice barely above a growl. He tried not to look like he was fleeing, but wasn't sure he succeeded.

From behind, someone called out, "You okay, sir?"

Maybe a waiter, maybe the staff, he didn't know, he didn't look.

No answer. He was already out— the door slamming open, chimes jangling like the last warning for a scene of complete horror.

The night bit deep into his skin, messy and real, and he darted toward his car. White paint, dirt smudged down the side, just where he'd left it.

The keys slipped in his grip. He had to fumble for the lock, swear under his breath. In. Safe. Maybe. Maybe not.

He jammed the keys into the ignition. Turned, once, twice—nothing but silence. With every failed turn, his hands shook a little harder.

"Don't do this, come on..." His voice wavered, caught between hope and raw panic.

He slammed his fist on the wheel. The horn let out a burst. The café's transparent windows flashed with shadows of faces, some annoyed, some just curious. It didn't matter. All that mattered was speed—get away, disappear before she found a way into this side of his life. Again.

The horn blared again. Louder? Or was he just unraveling that fast?

A loud knock, rapid, punched through his panic. He jerked. For a second, he pictured her face, smirking through the glass.

But it was just a man in work clothes, an exhausted stranger. "Hey, easy with the noise, man. You trying to wake the entire city?"

Relief—hot and cold—hit him all at once. He rolled his window so the man could hear him well. "My car... it's dead."

The man shrugged. "Want a jump or something? Call a tow?" His voice was clipped with undeniable awkwardness, half-stepping back.

Right then, the engine coughed. Roared to life, as if by magic. Both men startled—the stranger raised his eyebrows, but Iyaan was already rolling his window back up, already shifting into gear, already gone.

The tires left a thread of black mark on the street behind them. "What the hell," the man muttered to himself as the car fired down the block and out of sight. "Kids these days are just...hah..."

Iyaan didn't remember much of the drive. Half his brain was on the road, the other half replaying Nur's eyes, her smile, over and over—taunting, mocking, threatening. His whole reason for running away, for moving cities, for rebuilding a worn-out ghost of a life crumpled down so quickly, he couldn't seem to grasp it.

He reached the Apartment building. It was there before he knew he'd arrived—the narrow lot, busted gate, a flickering porch light. He stumbled up the stairs, miscounted the steps, cursed at the doormat, checked over his shoulder for the ghosts only he could see before steadying his gaze ahead.

The door fought him when he tried to unlock and now it fought him again when his paranoia took over. He double-checked both locks, the main and the rail gate one, then checked again. It was a waste perhaps, but it was all he had.

Home.

At least, that's what he called it when he was trying to convince himself he'd made it somewhere safe. The living room was empty except for a long grey couch met with open arms every night, a fridge that hummed too loud close by, a clock that ran consistently late, and a low glass table in front of the couch.

He dropped onto the couch, chest tight. His breath came in hard, shallow draws. "How? How did she find me?" he whispered, staring up at the cracks in the ceiling.

He pressed his wrists over his eyes, as if that could press the memories down out of sight. He used to believe justice could outrun the past.

Dumb.

He joined the police to find answers, to find her motives, to finish the story right.

He laughed—bitter, cracked. "Worked out great, didn't it?" It barely made a sound in the already echoing room.

He thought of Johan's team—that lucky transfer, all those new names, so many chances to start again. All turned to ashes now. If Nur could find him here, nowhere was safe. Not for long.

His voice sounded like it belonged to someone else, whispering at the edges of sleep. "I chased her since college. I promised I'd see this through..." He couldn't finish. His throat closed on his own words.

He rubbed his temples, splaying his fingers over his tired eyes.

"What if this is all I've got left? All my courage, what if this is it?" His words evaporated into the dim silence.

Adrenaline drained away, and without warning, exhaustion toppled over him. He sank into the couch, heavy as a stone, his arms flopped wide. At the edge, waiting for sleep to pull him under, he saw her eyes one last time—ice, hollow, and laughing.

He flinched. Soon enough, dreams would have him.