FLUENT IN FORBIDDEN — CHAPTER FOURTEEN

"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 hardest thing to translate isn't a dead language—it’s the living silence of a man who is deciding whether or not to pull the trigger."

​The red light high on the "Dead Ship’s" hull didn't blink again. It was a single, silent permission, a punctuation mark at the end of a very long, very wet sentence. The massive basket, designed to lift machinery or wounded crew, continued its slow, creaking descent, its shadow stretching over our raft like a net.

​I reached out and grabbed the cable. The metal was grease-blackened and coarse, biting into my already raw hands. Julian and Layla watched me, their faces illuminated by the eerie crimson glow from above. There was no more panic in their eyes; they had crossed the threshold of terror and arrived at a cold, exhausted resignation. They were trusting me, and in the Trench, trust is the only currency that Elias’s money couldn't devalue.

​"Get in," I whispered, holding the basket steady against the swell.

​We had to lift Layla over the side, her small body shivering violently against Julian’s chest as she stepped onto the industrial grille. We followed, the three of us huddled in the center of the basket, the blue folder clutched in my vest like a second heart. The chain groaned, a sudden, jarring CLACK as the winch engaged, and we were yanked into the air.

​The ocean retreated beneath us. The Odyssey’s graveyard was now just an expanse of black water and grey fog, our raft a discarded speck. I didn't look back; in my line of work, looking back is how you let the past rewrite your ending.

​As the basket cleared the gunwale of the tanker, a hand reached out from the gloom. It wasn't the manicured hand of a diplomat or the calloused hand of a soldier. It was the hand of a man named Boris—a Russian smuggler with a face that looked like it had been carved out of granite and left in the rain.

​Boris had a signature smell: a mixture of high-proof vodka, gun oil, and pickled herring. But tonight, it was just the comforting scent of a man who had survived the Cold War and seen the downfall of three different governments. He nodded at me, a microscopic acknowledgement of our shared history, and then looked at Julian and Layla.

​"Cargo looks wet, Mikael," he said, his voice a low rumble. "And very expensive. This one..." he pointed at Julian, "...looks like he’s trying to be a prince who lost his way. And the girl...she is too young for this kind of game."

​"They aren't cargo, Boris. They're clients," I corrected. "And they are the reason the folder I have is so heavy."

​Julian stepped forward, trying to summon a shred of his brother’s dignity. "Thank you for the...hospitality. We require a place to rest, medical attention, and a secure communication line. We have ample means to pay."

​Boris laughed, a dry, coughing sound. "Pay? In the Trench, we do not take credit cards. We do not take wire transfers from banks that your brother and his allies owns. We take things that can be traded for fuel. Things that can keep this ghost of a ship afloat for one more night. What do you have?"

​I stepped between them and reached into my vest. I didn't pull out the blue folder, not yet. I pulled out a small, leather-bound box I’d grabbed from Elias’s safe during the chaos. Inside was a set of cufflinks, made from flawless, deep-blue sapphires that had once belonged to Elias’s mother. The family history said they were worth a small fortune.
​I tossed the box to Boris. He caught it with one hand, opened it with a click, and examined the stones. His face didn't change, but his eyes narrowed. He snapped the box shut.

​"It is a good deposit, Mikael," he said, tucking the box into his heavy coat. "But it is not enough for the language you are speaking. This prince and the girl...they bring the kind of attention that sinks a ship. Mansour’s ships are circling the Trench. My own crew is nervous. This is not a shelter; it is a fortress that is running out of bullets."

​"Then I have something better," I said.
​I pulled out the blue folder. I didn't open it. I just held it up, letting the dim moonlight catch the plastic casing.

​"This is not a list of banks, Boris. It’s a roll call of treason. It’s the names of the men who are helping Mansour buy your country. It includes the schematics for the national power grid’s fail-safes. The Minister of Defense’s private offshore accounts. The details of the weapon systems they plan to use in the coup. Mansour wants this back so badly that he’ll sink this entire Trench to get it."

​Boris looked at the folder, then back at me. I could see the gears turning in his head. This was the transaction he was waiting for. This wasn't just fuel money; this was a weapon.
​"And what is the price for this...dictionary of destruction?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous.

​I looked at Julian and Layla. "A safe passage to the mainland for them. A new identity for the girl. And for me...a place to start a fire. I’m done translating monsters. I want to publish a book of secrets that will burn Elias’s legacy to ashes."

​Boris reached out and took the folder. He didn't open it; he didn't need to. He trusted me. And in the Trench, trust, combined with a manual for a coup, is the only code that matters.

​"You have five minutes to get clean," he said, motioning toward the inner hatch. "Then we talk. We talk in the old language. The language of a revolution."

​I looked at Julian. He was watching us, his face pale, realizing that he was no longer a player in this game, only a pawn in a transaction that could start a war. He didn't say anything; he didn't need to. He’d signed the contract the moment he jumped into the water.

​"Welcome to the inner sanctum, lost prince," Boris said, a small, dangerous smile touching his lips. "Try not to get too comfortable. In the Trench, the only ending that matters is survival."

​"Daylight is coming to claim the quiet, but these words stay with you. We have crossed the threshold, and the secrets have found a new owner. But can a man who trades a kingdom for safe passage ever truly be free? Or is Julian Elias just trading one cage for another, built by a writer who knows exactly where all the bodies are buried?

​If you enjoyed this journey into the midnight hours, leave a heart or a tip to keep the candles burning. The story is rising from the depths, and it is hungry.

​Sleep well—if you can.

​— The Night Writer."