Chapter 5 - Shadows Beneath the Surface
The canteen bustled with noise — trays clattering, laughter echoing, footsteps rushing.
Azril stood quietly near the back door, wiping tables with a rag that had seen better days.
He didn't mind the work.
In fact, there was something almost peaceful about it.
A rhythm he could lose himself in.
Better than sitting alone.
Better than feeling the stares burn into his back.
"Hey! Cleaner boy!"
The shout broke his focus.
A group of students at the center table waved their arms exaggeratedly, laughing.
Azril recognized them — the usual crowd who thought themselves untouchable.
He calmly walked over, cloth in hand.
One boy, tall and wiry, smirked as he knocked his tray onto the floor.
Rice, sauce, and bits of fried chicken scattered like broken pride.
"Oops," the boy said lazily.
"Guess you have a real job now."
The others laughed.
Azril crouched down without a word.
He picked up each grain carefully, hands steady, refusing to let his emotions show.
Inside, though — he felt it.
Not anger.
Not shame.
A deep, burning resolve.
Patience is strength, his father's voice echoed in his mind.
Real warriors master their heart first.
Azril finished cleaning, stood up, and met the boy's mocking gaze without flinching.
"May Allah guide you," he said simply, his voice low and sincere.
For a split second, confusion flickered across the boy's face.
He hadn't expected that.
Neither had the crowd.
The laughter died awkwardly.
Azril bowed slightly — a respectful nod — then turned and walked away, rag slung over his shoulder like a silent badge of honor.
Outside, under the shaded corridor, Azril sat down, breathing in deeply.
The scent of wet concrete and distant fried bananas filled the air.
"You really are different, you know that?"
Azril looked up.
It was Iman again — the girl from the rooftop.
She had a plastic cup of iced tea in one hand and a small packet of nasi lemak in the other.
Without waiting for permission, she sat beside him and placed the nasi lemak on his lap.
Azril hesitated.
Again, kindness.
He wasn't used to it coming from strangers.
"I didn't do it for you," Iman said, sipping her drink with a smirk.
"More for me. I like betting on winners."
Azril chuckled softly — the first genuine laugh he'd allowed himself today.
"You bet wrong," he said, unwrapping the nasi lemak carefully.
"I'm not here to win anything."
She raised an eyebrow. "Aren't you? Then why are you here?"
Azril looked down at the food — white rice, sambal, half an egg, a few fried anchovies.
Simple. Honest.
Like home.
He thought of his family again, and the silent promises he'd made.
"I'm here to fight," he said quietly.
"But not with fists."
Iman studied him, her expression unreadable.
There was a beat of silence.
Then she leaned back against the wall, hands behind her head.
"Well, you'll need more than patience to survive this place," she said.
Azril nodded, a small smile playing on his lips.
"Good thing I brought something else too."
She glanced at him, curious.
"Oh yeah? Like what?"
Azril's hand moved unconsciously — tracing slow, deliberate patterns in the air.
Movements taught not in classrooms, but under the open skies of his village.
Silat forms — not aggressive, not flashy — but alive with purpose.
Iman blinked, realization dawning.
"You..." she began.
Azril simply smiled, folding his hand back into his lap.
"Sometimes," he said softly, "the strongest blade is the one still in its sheath."
For a long moment, neither spoke.
Above them, the school bell rang — sharp and demanding.
Azril stood, tucking the empty nasi lemak packet neatly into the trash.
He turned to Iman, his posture straight, his eyes clear.
"Thanks for the food," he said with a respectful nod.
"And the company."
Iman watched him walk away — not fast, not slow — just steady.
Like someone carrying the weight of more than just textbooks.
She shook her head, a s
mall grin tugging at her mouth.
"This year," she whispered to herself, "might actually be interesting."
[End of Chapter 5]