The school bell rang, and the whole Putrarians gathered inside Dewan Saujana. Nazha followed the other teachers onto the stage, where rows of chairs had been set up by the prefects. The hall was filled with chatter, and a couple of swallows flew into the hall as if they were the members of the assembly.
Megat and his senior assistants sat in the front row. A bespectacled, middle-aged woman approached Nazha. Her sharp eyes locked with Nazha's handed her notebook to be filled in by Nazha.
The bespectacled woman’s name tag caught the light as she leaned slightly forward.
SYARAH
Her tone softened just a fraction, but her eyes remained precise—administrative, observant, unreadable.
She slid the notebook closer to Nazha again.
“Can you fill in your particulars? she instructed. Full name, subject specialisation, and duration."
Nazha glanced down at the page, then back at her for a brief second—just long enough to register the structure of authority in front of her. No unnecessary explanation. Just expectation.
First line: Name.
She wrote carefully, each letter measured—
as if confirming it with every stroke.
Nazha binti [Father’s Name].
Second line: Option.
This time, she didn’t pause.
The pen moved with certainty.
English Language.
Third line: Duration.
A brief stillness.
She wrote it as it was given.
No adjustment. No question.
Three months.
Nazha handed the notebook back to Syarah, who passed it to Megat before sitting beside him.
From the seating alone, it was clear—
She was the Senior Assistant of Administration.
The emcee’s voice carried across Dewan Saujana, steady and practised.
“Principal Megat is invited to deliver his weekly speech.”
A brief shift moved through the hall.
Megat rose from his seat in the front row, straightening his tie before stepping toward the lectern. The gesture was small, familiar—something he had done many times before.
The microphone adjusted with a soft screech.
Around her, the air changed.
Nazha felt it before she saw it.
A few heads turned. Conversations dipped into whispers. Glances—quick, careful, measuring—fell in her direction.
New face.
Unfamiliar presence.
Unanswered question.
She didn’t look back.
Instead, her gaze settled on Megat, now standing at the lectern, one hand resting lightly against its edge as he prepared to speak.
Something predictable.
Something structured.
Something easier to follow than the quiet curiosity gathering behind her.
And so, she stayed there—
focused, still, untouched by the noise that wasn’t meant to be heard.
Megat cleared his throat, the hall settling almost immediately.
“Before I begin,” he said, voice steady through the microphone, “we have a new teacher joining us.”
Nazha’s fingers stilled against her lap.
A pause—brief, but enough.
She had expected it.
A name called. A cue to stand. A moment to step forward and be seen.
Her eyes remained on the lectern, but her attention sharpened.
“Cikgu Nazha,” Megat continued, “will be with us for the next three months, handling English Language.”
No invitation.
No gesture.
Just a statement—placed neatly into the system, as if it had always been there.
A few more heads turned now, less subtle this time. The curiosity no longer quiets.
Nazha didn’t move.
Not when her name settled into the space.
Not when the weight of recognition followed.
She stayed seated, exactly where she was.
Because there was nothing to respond to.
It had already been done for her.
And at the front, Megat simply continued—
As if the introduction was never meant to be a moment,
Only information.
At the far right of the stage, a man in a checkered shirt leaned back in his chair, his posture loose against the formal setting. His hair was cut low, neat at the sides, and a pair of thick-rimmed glasses framed a face that looked more observant than expressive.
He hadn’t reacted much during the introduction.
Until—
A nudge to his side.
“Oi.”
Another teacher, Razis, tilted his head slightly toward the front.
“Faizal,” he muttered under his breath, just enough to be heard, “you got another player.”
Faizal glanced at him, one brow lifting.
Razis smirked faintly, eyes flicking toward Nazha for a split second.
“She’ll be under you.”
Faizal’s gaze followed briefly, assessing.
Not long enough to be obvious.
Just enough to register.
Then he leaned back again, expression unchanged, as if nothing significant had been said at all.
But the message had already settled.
Faizal didn’t answer immediately.
His eyes stayed forward, fixed on Megat at the lectern as if the conversation beside him was nothing more than background noise.
Only after a brief pause did he speak, voice low.
“Three months only?”
Razis let out a soft chuckle, still watching the front.
“Yup. English option.”
Faizal adjusted his glasses slightly, the movement small, controlled.
Then, almost casually—
“Not a player,” he said.
A beat.
“She’s a teacher.”
Razis raised his eyebrows, amused.
Faizal didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to.
His attention had already returned to the stage, where Megat continued speaking, unaware—or unconcerned—with the small exchange that had just passed between them.
But his words lingered anyway.
Not a player.
A teacher.
The applause after Megat’s speech faded into the soft scrape of chairs and shifting footsteps. The hall slowly loosened its structure, formality dissolving into movement as teachers began to stand and collect themselves.
Nazha remained seated for a moment longer, waiting for the flow around her to settle before she moved.
“Cikgu Nazha.”
Syarah’s voice cut through gently, but with purpose.
Nazha looked up.
Syarah stood beside her row, notebook still in hand, expression unchanged from earlier—precise, efficient, unreadable in its own calm way.
“A minute, Nazha,” she said.
Nazha rose without hesitation.
Syarah led her a few steps away from the dispersing crowd, where the noise of the hall softened just slightly. She flipped open the notebook again, scanning before speaking.
“This is your timetable. You have 12 teaching hours, and you will be mostly teaching Form 2 classes,” she said, sliding a printed sheet forward. “And your guide teacher has been assigned.”
Nazha took the paper, eyes moving across the grid of periods and classes.
Syarah paused, then added, almost as an afterthought—but clearly intentional—
“Faizal Mazri.”
Nazha climbed the stairs to the Bilik Sahsiah.
The third teacher’s lounge.
Quieter than the main staff room, more contained—like a space reserved for those who preferred distance over noise. The corridor leading to it carried a faint echo of footsteps and ceiling fans, the kind of silence that wasn’t empty, just selective.
Lucky, she thought briefly.
Her guide teacher shared the same space.
She stopped in front of the door.
A simple label sat beside the frame.
Faizal Mazri
Head Panel of English Language
Nazha pushed the door open.
Inside, Faizal looked up from his seat almost immediately, as if he had already been expecting her.
“Ah,” he said, straightening slightly. “You made it.”
Nazha gave a small nod.
He stood, not formally, but with easy familiarity—like someone who had already decided this was not going to be complicated.
“So you’re the new English teacher,” he said, studying her for a second before smiling faintly. “Three months only, right?”
“Yes,” Nazha replied.
Faizal leaned against the table, expression softening.
“Good,” he said, almost too quickly. “We don’t get many English graduates here. Most of the time I’m juggling placements and patchwork classes.”
A pause.
Then, more openly—
“I’m actually excited to have you under my panel.”
Nazha’s gaze shifted slightly at that wording—under my panel—not subordinate, not possession. Structure.
Faizal noticed her reaction and added, almost amused:
“Don’t worry. I don’t bite. Much.”
A faint silence passed.
Then he gestured toward the door.
“Come. I’ll show you something more useful than paperwork.”
The corridor outside led them toward the classrooms.
Faizal walked slightly ahead, hands in his pockets, voice casual but instructional.
“We’ve got three main streams for Form Two.”
He held up a finger.
“2 Ikhlas—high proficiency. Fast learners. Ask too many questions, sometimes dangerous.”
Another finger.
“2 Amanah—mid-range. Balanced. Easier to manage.”
Then a final one.
“2 Ukhuwah—low proficiency. They need structure. A lot of it.”
Nazha listened quietly.
Not absorbing passively—but mapping.
Layouts. Movement. Energy.
Like a field, she had to understand before stepping into it.
Faizal glanced at her sideways.
“You’re thinking too much already,” he said.
“I’m observing,” Nazha replied.
That earned a small chuckle.
“Good,” he said. “Keep doing that.”
They stopped outside a classroom.
2 UKHUWAH
Noise spilt faintly through the door even before it opened—uneven, restless, unfiltered.
Faizal lowered his voice slightly.
“This one’s yours to observe first.”
Nazha stepped closer, eyes narrowing just slightly as she looked through the glass panel.
Movement patterns. Seating clusters. Attention flow. Disruptions.
She wasn’t just seeing students.
She was reading a structure.
Faizal noticed the shift in her expression.
Then he gave one last piece of advice, lighter in tone but precise in intent.
“Also—keep your face tight.”
Nazha looked at him.
He continued, almost casually:
“If they think you’re soft, they’ll test you. If they think you’re strict, they’ll calculate. But if they don’t know…” he tilted his head slightly, “they behave.”
A pause.
Then, with a small grin:
“Let them assume you’re hard to mess with.”
Nazha didn’t respond immediately.
She simply looked back through the glass.
Memorising.
Analysing.
Already adjusting the shape of her presence before she ever stepped inside.
From the corridor, Nazha continued watching the classroom through the glass panel.
She noted everything.
The noise patterns.
The weak attention points.
The students who avoided eye contact.
The ones who tested boundaries without speaking.
Faizal stood beside her, silent for a moment longer than before.
Then he spoke, casually.
“You’re analysing them like a battlefield.”
Nazha didn’t look away.
“I am understanding them.”
A short pause.
Faizal adjusted his glasses.
“That’s where most new teachers start wrong,” he said quietly. “They understand too fast… but correct nothing yet.”
Nazha finally turned slightly toward him.
He was still looking at the class.
Not her.
“But you will learn,” he added, almost under his breath.
“Tomorrow, I’ll show you what you missed.”
The bell rang somewhere deeper in the block.
Faizal pushed off the wall.
“Come. You’ve seen enough for today.”
Nazha followed him without hesitation.
A brief pause in the record.
Then another line appeared.
Faizal engages her differently. Not as a trainee. As a variable.
The system did not mark it as a concern.
Only as a pattern.
Back at the administration block, Megat’s observation log was updated shortly after.
She does not resist direction. She aligns quickly with authority figures—but does not yet anchor herself within them.
Then another line appeared.
Faizal engages her differently. Not as a trainee. As a variable.
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