[This scene got me in a fucking chokehold and I couldn't stop]
âBerapa umur kau?â
The second it leaves his mouth, he winces internally.
Macam interview pulak.
But Hatta doesnât comment.
â23.â
Yusof pauses mid-slice.
Two years.
Same gap.
His grip tightens slightly around the knife.
Weird.
For a split second, a thought flickersâsomething absurd, something impossible.
Is there a version of the world where Fakhri was older than him?
He shakes it off, returning to the cutting board.
The questions continue after thatâlight, almost casual on the surface.
But each one from Hatta skirts dangerously close to something deeper.
Too close.
Yusof answers carefully, always just enough, never too much.
In return, he learns small things.
Hatta prefers Wonda Coffee over Nescafe.
Heâs been practicing silat since he was a kidâof course he has. The way he carries himself already says enough.
Normal things.
Safe things.
Untilâ
âKau setuju ke dengan apa yang diorang buat dalam Tarung tu?â
The knife stops.
Just for a second.
Yusof stares at the half-sliced tomato in front of him, juice bleeding slowly across the board.
Isa.
That bastard.
Obsessive. Twisted. The kind of man who feeds off fear like itâs oxygen.
Too similar to someone Yusof used to know.
Too similar to someone he used to be around.
His jaw tightens.
FakhriâHattaâwouldâve hated Isa.
No.
Would hate him.
Some things donât change across lifetimes. Yusofâs sure of that.
Still⌠past is past.
Whatever Kahar didâ
Thatâs not him anymore.
And Hatta?
Hatta doesnât have to hate Yusof just because Fakhri hated Kahar.
Right?
Yusof exhales, forcing a small laugh as he turns the stove knob, the soft tick-tick-foosh of the flame filling the space.
âTakde la aku fikir lama sangat pasal tu,â he says, voice lighter now. âAku bukan siapa-siapa pun dalam Tarung ni. Paling-paling pun kerja macam Grab je.â
A joke.
An easy out.
He risks a glance over his shoulder.
Hattaâs smiling.
It was a small smile. Subtle.
But itâs there.
And for some reason, thatâs enough to make something warm and giddy bloom in Yusofâs chest.
Maybeâ
Maybe this time, things can be different.
Screw the hierarchy. Screw the fights.
Maybe he can do this right.
Yusof reaches for a patty, heartbeat just a little faster now.
âKau suka burger ayam ke dagingââ
He falters mid-sentence.
What comes out instead is softer, almost tentative.
âKalau ayam⌠okay tak?â
Thereâs no pause.
No hesitation.
âAyam okay je.â
â
Yusof freezes.
Completely.
The world narrows to that one sentenceâthose exact words, spoken in that exact tone.
Something cracks open in his chest.
Slowlyâtoo slowlyâhe turns.
Hattaâs looking at him.
And thereâs something on his face that Yusof canât name..
It hits Yusof all at once, cold and electric.
Oh. Oh.
Shit.
Thereâs no time to think, but instinct kicks in anywayâ
His hand snaps to the stove.
Click.
Flame off.
Good.
Becauseâ
The cup flies.
ââOI!â
Yusof jerks back just as the plastic cup whizzes past his face, water splashing across the wall. Before he can recoverâ
SKREEECHâ
The small plastic table is shoved straight into him.
âWOI WOI WOIâ!â
He stumbles back, barely catching it before it slams into his waist. His grip slips, the knife still in his handâ
No.
Bad idea.
Without thinking, Yusof flings it sidewaysâclack!âit disappears under the cabinet just asâ
A kick slices through the air where his head was a second ago.
âGila kauâ?!â
Hatta doesnât answer.
Of course he doesnât.
His eyesâ
Same.
Exactly the same.
Yusofâs heart lurches.
âFakhriââ he blurts, voice cracking, ââjapââ
Hatta lunges.
No hesitation.
âDIAM LA!â
Yusof ducks, barely avoiding a strike to his jaw, arms coming up on reflex. His body moves before his brain catches upâblocking, shifting, stepping back.
Silat.
Muay Thai.
Old habits. Old life.
âKau dengar duluââ
Another swingâfast.
Hattaâs attacks were cleaner than before. Where previously, teenage Fakhri used street smarts and experience tousles in the streets, like a rabid dog ready to attack.
Yusof barely manages to parry, stumbling sideways into the counter.
Hattaâ Yusof dodges another kick at his solar plexus.
Hatta is disciplined.
Every movement tight. Efficient. Trained.
âWoiâ!â Yusof pants, dodging another hit, âkau gila ke apaâ?!â
No response.
Just another attack.
Yusof blocksâtoo slow.
THUD.
The punch lands clean across his face.
His head snaps to the side.
For a second, everything rings.
He staggers back, hand flying to his cheek, vision swimming as he tries to refocus.
And suddenlyâ
DĂŠjĂ vu.
A hall.
A crowd.
Blood in his mouth.
The first time they fought.
Back when he wasâ
Kahar.
Yusof exhales sharply, spitting a bit to the side.
Then he laughs.
A little breathless. A little unhinged.
âKan aku cakapâŚâ he mutters, straightening up, eyes locking onto Hatta againâ
A familiar glint returning.
ââŚjangan main muka la, sial.â












