When Rania Safi's life crumbles in a mere six months, Officer Johan Li is left with unrequited emotions and unanswered questions. On the other end of the same city, Roman Sinclair and Elham Khan find themselves on the two side of the same coin.
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The ointment Rumeha had brought worked wonders on her aching shoulder. The coolness spread across her shoulder, dulling the sharp pain. Yet, as she stood in front of the mirror, it didn't quite reach her heart. She stared at the length of her dark hair and threaded her fingers through the lifeless strands. They had lost their life, just like her. She remembered overhearing a stranger at the airport say that hair held onto trauma. Never in her life would she have agreed, but here she was. There was no balm or salve that could heal the pulsing pain within her—a relentless reminder that some wounds ran far deeper than skin.
And as she ran her hands through her hair, they stopped just above her shoulders. She grasped the edge of her shirt, as if reaching for something that was no longer there. Her hair had once cascaded down her back like midnight silk, shining in the moonlight, slipping through the hair clip—the weight of it in her fingers as she twisted it into a bun for work. Its absence brought a profound ache; he had taken so much from her.
Now it was all just a memory—an echo of her past, a memory of wearing her beauty like armor while he used it as a weapon. His cruelty had been dipped in honeyed compliments: I like it when your hair is short. But it was never short enough to reveal the bruises and marks he left behind. She closed her eyes as she grabbed the clip, but she couldn't even put her hair up.
She glanced at her sling and set the clip down. She had managed to wash her hair, but tying it was another struggle she couldn't handle. She could hardly leave it untied; it felt like pins and needles poking her neck, or like his hand slithering across the nape of her neck. As the clip slipped through her fingers, tears began to fall—fragments of her pain spilling out in the helplessness she wasn't used to. Her parents had set her free at eighteen, encouraging her to navigate life independently. Now, she couldn't do something as simple as tying her hair.
When she looked back at the mirror, her vision blurred into a kaleidoscope of colors. Amidst that haze, he stood there, watching her from the living room—an anchor in the chaos. Her eyes followed him as he set the hydro flask aside and moved toward her. He paused at the threshold, his gaze locking with hers, hesitating to cross. When she remained still, he stepped in. His movements were gentle and calm. Picking up the clip from the floor, he carefully gathered her lifeless strands and knotted them in place. His comfort, care, and tenderness broke something within her. The last touch on her hair from a man had been harsh, cold, and burning, yet now Johan saw her; he gathered her pieces and quietly handed them back to her.
"Every summer I spent in Singapore, I'd play with my cousin, Nurhana. She was this tiny little thing, bursting with hair that seemed to have a life of its own—like those cartoon characters, small but with big heads and lots of hair. My grandma, Ahma, used to tease her, saying she was short because all the food went straight to her hair." He chuckled softly, shaking his head as he glanced around the room, his gaze settling on the jacket Elham had brought along with some clothes earlier.
