The wind carried a sharp chill as Leong and Fatma left the restaurant. Streetlights flickered with a tired glow, stretching long shadows across the pavement as they walked side by side. The night was deceptively quiet—too quiet, Leong thought—as if the city itself was holding its breath.
Fatma clutched her coat tightly as they approached the main road. Her steps were steady, but he could feel the tension radiating from her. He wanted to tell her to go home, to stay safe, to let him face this alone… but she had already made her choice.
And he wasn't going to strip her of the courage she offered him.
"Fatma," he said quietly as they reached the bus stop, "if anything happens tonight, stay behind me. Don't engage. Don't speak to them unless necessary. Alright?"
She nodded immediately—but then stopped.
"I'm not afraid of them," she said.
"I know." His voice softened. "That's what scares me."
Her lips parted, a small breath escaping her, but before she could respond, a motorcycle engine rumbled again in the distance. This time, slower. More deliberate. Leong's eyes sharpened, tracking the sound.
A black motorcycle rolled past across the opposite street, the same model he saw earlier. The rider's visor was down, hiding his face. He slowed, almost to a halt, as if watching them.
Leong moved instinctively, stepping in front of Fatma.
The rider paused.
A beat.
Then sped off.
Fatma grabbed Leong's sleeve. "That's the same—"
"I know."
Someone was watching them—tracking their movements. Either Mei Lin or Vincent, or someone working with them.
In his previous life, he walked willingly into their traps. In this life, they were forcing him.
But he wasn't the same naive man anymore.
"What time is it?" Fatma asked, trying to keep her voice steady.
"Almost seven."
The time he was warned.
The café wasn't far—just a ten-minute walk—but the idea of going straight into the location chosen by Mei Lin felt like walking into a spider's web.
He wasn't stupid.
He wouldn't go inside.
But he needed to know what they planned. He needed to hear it, see it, confront it—then crush it before it could grow into the disaster it had once become.
"We're close," he said. "Stay alert."
Fatma nodded, her hands tightening into small fists.
The café's sign glowed weakly from across the street. Small yellow bulbs lined the windows, creating a pool of warm light that spilled onto the sidewalk.
It would've been a cozy sight on any other night.
Tonight, it felt like a stage set for a performance he didn't want to watch.
Mei Lin was already there, sitting at the table right by the window—deliberately chosen so that he had no way to approach without being seen. She wore a tight white dress, too elegant for a casual café, too forced to be genuine. Her hair was perfectly curled, lips painted deep red.
She looked like someone dressed to seduce a man she once betrayed.
But her eyes… her eyes betrayed something else.
Desperation.
She kept tapping her nails against her phone nervously, occasionally glancing at the door.
"She looks nervous," Fatma murmured.
"Good," Leong replied.
They stayed across the street, hidden behind a small bus shelter.
After a few seconds, Mei Lin's gaze flicked toward the road.
Her eyes widened.
She saw him.
And the moment she noticed Fatma beside him, her expression contorted—first disbelief, then irritation, and finally something cold and dangerous.
Mei Lin stood abruptly and stormed out of the café.
Fatma inhaled sharply. "She's coming."
"I know."
Leong straightened, intercepting Mei Lin's path before she could reach Fatma.
"What do you want?" he asked.
Mei Lin scoffed, crossing her arms. "You came. Good. Now let's talk. Alone."
"No," Leong said firmly. "Whatever you wanted, you can say it here."
Her gaze snapped toward Fatma. "I'm not talking in front of her."
"Then don't talk at all," Leong said.
Mei Lin stiffened. "Leong, be serious. This is important."
"Important doesn't mean private," he replied coldly.
Her eyes narrowed. "Fine. You want honesty? You're in trouble."
Fatma stepped closer. "He's not."
Mei Lin shot her a glare sharp enough to cut glass. "I'm not talking to you."
Leong stepped forward, blocking Mei Lin's sightline. "Talk to me, then. What's the problem?"
Mei Lin pulled a small envelope from her clutch and pushed it against his chest.
"Someone is coming after you," she said. "And if you don't help me, they'll come after both of us."
Leong did not move. "Us? There is no 'us.'"
Mei Lin rolled her eyes. "You think this is a joke? Open it."
Leong reluctantly took the envelope. It was light—just a single folded sheet inside. He unfolded it carefully.
Fatma leaned closer, trying to peek without intruding.
And then—
Both of them froze.
It was a single photograph.
A picture of Leong…
standing in front of a dark alley…
handing money to a man with a blurred face.
It looked like a drug deal.
Leong's chest tightened.
This photo didn't exist.
It never happened.
But it looked real.
Too real.
Fatma covered her mouth. "Leong… this isn't—"
"I know," he said through clenched teeth.
Then he turned toward Mei Lin.
"Where did you get this?"
Mei Lin's expression trembled, revealing her fear. "A guy texted me this yesterday. Said if I don't bring you to talk to him, he'll leak this to your company. To your parents. To the police."
Leong stared at her, studying her face.
She wasn't lying.
She was scared—genuinely scared.
Fatma frowned. "Why would he threaten you?"
Mei Lin hesitated.
"Because…" she said slowly, "because I owe him money."
Leong's eyes hardened. "Vincent."
Mei Lin flinched.
Fatma stared between them. "Who's Vincent?"
Leong inhaled deeply.
"In my previous… in my past," he corrected, "he was the man she left me for. A con artist. A manipulator. He used her to get to me. He used me to get money. And when I ran out, he destroyed both of us."
Fatma stepped closer to him, instinctively protective.
Mei Lin clenched her jaw. "Believe whatever you want. But this—" she pointed to the fake photo— "is just the beginning. He said he has videos, messages, bank statements. All fabricated, but…"
She swallowed.
"But they look real. And he knows how to make them convincing."
Leong's heartbeat thudded in his ears.
A memory flashed—
the moment his life collapsed in his previous timeline.
The accusations.
The humiliation.
The betrayal.
The false evidence that looked real enough to destroy him.
No.
Not again.
"This is why I told you to come," Mei Lin whispered. "He wants money. If we pay—"
"No."
Leong's voice boomed through the street.
Fatma flinched—not from fear, but from the intensity she had never heard from him before.
"We're not giving him anything," Leong said.
Mei Lin frowned. "Then you'll lose everything!"
"Not this time."
Mei Lin's face twisted. "Leong, stop pretending you're strong. You've always needed someone to save you—"
"I don't," he interrupted sharply. "Not anymore."
Fatma exhaled quietly, her eyes softening.
Mei Lin glared at her. "This is your fault. You replaced me, didn't you?"
Fatma blinked. "Replace? There was nothing to replace."
Mei Lin's face twisted with bitterness. "She's using you, Leong. Just like—"
"No," he said. "You were the only one who used me."
Silence fell.
The kind of silence that burned.
Mei Lin swallowed, her eyes trembling—hurt, rage, desperation mixing into something unstable.
"You'll regret this," she whispered. "Both of you."
Then she turned sharply and stormed off down the street.
Fatma exhaled slowly. "She… she's dangerous."
"Not as dangerous as the man behind her," Leong said quietly.
Fatma looked at him.
"What now?"
Leong stared at the fake photograph.
The evidence.
The trap.
The beginning of the end—unless he tore it down now.
"We find Vincent," he said. "And we end this before he gets the chance to destroy anything."
Fatma hesitated… then nodded with firm resolve.
"I'll help you."
Leong looked at her—this woman who didn't owe him anything, who had every reason to walk away.
Yet she stayed.
A warmth spread in his chest.
"No," he said quietly.
"You'll stay safe."
Fatma lifted her chin stubbornly. "Leong, don't you dare push me away. Not after everything."
He met her gaze, startled by the intensity in her eyes.
"You're not doing this alone," she continued. "Not while I'm here. Not while I… care about you."
Her voice broke slightly, but the conviction did not.
Leong's breath caught.
No one had ever said that to him.
Not sincerely.
Not without wanting something in return.
He took a slow step closer.
"Fatma," he said softly, "I don't want to drag you into my problems."
"You didn't drag me," she said. "I walked in."
Silence enveloped them again, but this time, it felt warm—protective.
Leong lowered his head slightly, just enough so their foreheads almost touched.
"Thank you," he whispered. "For staying."
Fatma's breath trembled. "Always."
A soft gust of wind blew between them, carrying the scent of her shampoo, the warmth of her presence, the steady beat of her courage.
For the first time in his life—first life or second—Leong didn't feel alone.
After a long moment, he finally stepped back, though part of him didn't want to.
"We should go," he said. "There's still something I need to check."
Fatma nodded. "Lead the way."
And together, they walked into the night—not toward a trap, but toward the truth Leong should have discovered long ago.
This time, he wasn't walking toward a disaster.
He was walking toward a fight he intended to win.