FLUENT IN FORBIDDEN — CHAPTER FIFTEEN

"The clock has struck three, the coffee is cold, and the shadows are beginning to speak. Welcome back to the desk of The Night Writer, where the stories are brewed in the dark. Tonight, we find that the most dangerous place to be isn't in the line of fire—it’s in the memory of a man who has nothing left to lose but his secrets."

​The interior of the Dead Ship didn't smell like the ocean. It smelled of oxidized iron, stale tobacco, and the heavy, metallic tang of a world that had been forgotten by time. Boris led us through a labyrinth of weeping pipes and flickering fluorescent lights that buzzed like a hive of angry hornets.

​"In here," Boris grunted, shoving open a heavy steel door that groaned on its hinges.

​The room was a makeshift archive. Rows of mismatched filing cabinets lined the walls, and the center was dominated by a scarred wooden table covered in flickering monitors and ancient radio equipment. It was the nerve center of the Trench—a place where information was stripped, sorted, and sold to the highest bidder.

​Julian collapsed into a rusted folding chair, his head in his hands. Layla sat on a crate nearby, her eyes tracking the movement of a single, rhythmic leak from a pipe overhead. They looked like ghosts haunting their own lives.

​I stepped to the table and placed the blue folder down. The plastic casing was still slick with seawater, a ziplock seal protecting the treason within.

​"You said you wanted a place to start a fire, Mikael," Boris said, leaning over the table, his shadow looming large against the rusted walls. "But you are carrying enough gasoline to burn down the entire continent. You realize that once we pulse this data to the mainland, there is no going back. You cannot untranslate a revolution."

​"I’m not looking for an undo button, Boris," I said, my voice sounding hollow in the cramped space. "I’m looking for a period. Elias and Mansour have been writing a story of greed for twenty years. It’s time for someone else to write the ending."

​Julian looked up, his eyes bloodshot. "And what happens to us? If this goes out, the government falls. The military will split. Mansour will hunt us to the ends of the earth just to make an example of the people who betrayed him."

​"You already betrayed him, Julian," I said, turning to face him. "The moment you walked out of that study, you stopped being a prince. Now, you’re just a witness. And witnesses only survive if the jury hears them first."

​I turned back to the monitors. Boris was already tapping away at a keyboard that looked older than I was.

​"I have a contact," Boris muttered, his eyes reflected in the green glow of the screen. "A journalist in the north. She doesn't take bribes, and she doesn't fear the dark. If I send her the schematics of the coup, the streets will be full of people before the sun hits the horizon. But we need a catalyst. Something visceral. Something they can't call 'fake news.'"

​I reached into the folder and pulled out a single, grainy photograph. It wasn't of a bank statement or a blueprint. It was a photo of Mansour, Elias, and the Minister of Defense standing over a signed document—a literal contract for the dissolution of the current presidency. It was dated three days from now.

​"This is the heart of the grammar," I said, sliding the photo toward the scanner. "This is the proof that the law is being sold as scrap metal."

​Just as Boris reached for the photo, the ship groaned—a deep, shuddering vibration that didn't come from the engine. It was followed by a muffled thud that echoed through the hull, shaking the dust from the ceiling.
​Boris froze. His hand went to the heavy pistol at his hip. "That was not a swell."

​"Mansour," Julian whispered, his face turning a new shade of gray. "He didn't wait for the morning."

​"He’s not counting teeth anymore," I said, my heart jumping into a frantic rhythm. "He’s kicking in the door."

​Boris grabbed a radio from the table. "Deck four, report! What was that impact?"

​Static was the only answer. Then, a voice broke through—screaming, followed by the rhythmic, staccato chatter of automatic fire.

​"They’re on the ship," Boris growled, slamming the radio down. "They used a submersible. They bypassed the perimeter."
​He looked at me, then at the folder. "The fire you wanted? It’s here, Mikael. But it looks like we’re the ones who are going to burn."

​I grabbed the folder and shoved it back into my vest. I looked at Julian and Layla, then at the heavy steel door. The hunt hadn't ended at the sea; it had just moved into the dark.

​"Boris, get them to the secondary extract," I commanded, my voice dropping into the cold, clinical tone of a man who was already dead. "I’ll buy you the time to upload the first burst."

​"Mikael, no!" Julian shouted, standing up. "You can't face them alone!"

​"I’m not facing them, Julian," I said, picking up a heavy iron bar from the floor. "I’m just providing a distraction. Now go!"

​As Boris ushered them out through a rear maintenance hatch, I stood alone in the archive. The sound of boots on metal was getting louder, a rhythmic, predatory approach. I looked at the flickering green screen, the upload bar crawling toward 50%.

​I wasn't a soldier. I wasn't a hero. I was a translator. And tonight, I was going to translate the word 'sacrifice' into a language that Mansour would never forget.

​"Daylight is coming to claim the quiet, but these words stay with you. The trap has closed, and the room is getting smaller. In the heart of the Dead Ship, a man stands alone with a bar of iron and a pocket full of secrets. Is this the final chapter, or just the beginning of a legend?

​If you enjoyed this journey into the midnight hours, leave a heart or a tip to keep the candles burning. The next page is written in blood.

​Sleep well—if you can.

​— The Night Writer."