FLUENT IN FORBIDDEN — CHAPTER ELEVEN

​"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 language—it’s the silence of a man who has lost everything but his life."

​The Odyssey groaned under the weight of the swells, its rusted hull singing a dirge of metal on water. Behind us, the shoreline of the city was nothing more than a jagged line of dying embers, swallowed by the rising mist. We were in the "gray zone" now—the strip of ocean where the law is as fluid as the current and the only thing more dangerous than the men hunting you is the engine failing.

​I stood at the helm, my hands vibrating with the pulse of the ancient diesel engine. Beside me, Julian was a silhouette of frayed elegance. He had draped his damp wool coat over Layla, who was asleep in the corner of the wheelhouse, her breathing shallow and hitched, like a bird that had forgotten how to fly.

​"You're remarkably calm for a man who just committed grand larceny and high treason," Julian said, his voice sandpaper-dry. He wasn't looking at me; he was staring at the folder on the charts table, the edges of the paper curling in the salt air.

​"I’m not calm, Julian. I’m occupied," I replied, adjusting the throttle. "Calm is for people who have a destination. We just have a heading."

​He finally looked at me, the green light from the sonar display casting ghoulish shadows across his high cheekbones. "We can’t just stay on the water, Mikael. This boat has the top speed of a tired whale. Mansour has a fleet of interceptors in the port. By dawn, the coast guard will have our description. They won't even need to shoot us; they’ll just tow us back to Elias and let him finish the job in private."

​I glanced at the sonar. A single, rhythmic blip was pulsing on the edge of the screen. "We aren't staying on the water. We’re going to the Trench."

​"The Trench? That’s a smuggler’s cove," Julian hissed, leaning in. "It’s a graveyard for ships and a sanctuary for the kind of people who make Mansour look like a saint. You want to take my niece into a den of thieves?"

​"I want to take her somewhere where Elias’s money doesn't speak the local dialect," I countered. "In the Trench, they don't care about royal blood or corporate ledgers. They care about leverage. And thanks to that folder you’re holding, we have enough leverage to move the moon."

​Julian reached out, his hand hovering over the blue folder. "This blueprint for the coup... Mikael, if we release this, we don't just stop a wedding. We topple a government. We start a civil war. Thousands of people who have nothing to do with my brother’s greed will be caught in the crossfire."

​"And if we don't?" I asked, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous frequency. "Then Mansour takes the throne in all but name. He’ll turn the shipping lanes into a private artery for his black-market empire. He’ll disappear people like Layla every Tuesday for breakfast. Silence isn't a shield, Julian. It’s a shroud."

​He fell silent then, the only sound the rhythmic thrum-thrum of the engine. I watched him struggle with the weight of it. He was a man who had spent his life translating the world into comfortable, aesthetic experiences. Now, the world was raw, bleeding, and demanding a translation he wasn't sure he could provide.

​Suddenly, the radio crackled to life, a burst of static that made Layla bolt upright with a gasp.

​"Odyssey, this is Port Control Alpha. You are in violation of maritime exit protocols. Heave to and prepare to be boarded for inspection. Acknowledge."

​The voice wasn't a port official. It was too clipped, too precise. It was one of Mansour’s men.

​"They found us," Layla whispered, her voice trembling. "They’re coming for me, aren't they?"

​I reached out and grabbed Julian’s arm, pulling him toward the controls. "Get her below deck. There’s a crawlspace behind the engine block. It’s hot, it’s loud, and it smells like grease, but it’s lead-lined. They won't see her on the thermals."

​"What about you?" Julian asked, his eyes searching mine.

​"I’m going to give them a lesson in syntax," I said, a grim smile touching my lips as I reached for the flare gun under the dash. "In my world, when someone asks you to 'Acknowledge,' you don't use words. You use punctuation."

​I cut the engine. The Odyssey began to drift, the silence of the ocean rushing in like a flood. In the distance, the low, predatory whine of a turbine engine was growing louder. A spotlight cut through the fog, a blinding white finger searching the waves for our skin.

​"Mikael," Julian said, pausing at the hatch. "If we don't make it to the sunrise...thank you. For showing me that some things are worth burning for."

​"Save the eulogy for the morning, Julian," I said, my thumb clicking the safety off on the flare gun. "We have a lot of ink left to spill tonight."

​As the hatch slammed shut, I stood alone in the dark wheelhouse, the spotlight growing closer, turning the fog into a wall of white fire. I wasn't just a translator anymore. I was a ghost at the helm of a cargo of secrets, and I was about to show Mansour that some stories don't have a happy ending—they just have a survivor.

​"Daylight is coming to claim the quiet, but these words stay with you. The trap is set, the light is blinding, and the sea is waiting for its due. Can one man outtalk a bullet? Or is the Odyssey destined to become just another ghost story told by the Night Writer?

​If you enjoyed this journey into the midnight hours, leave a heart or a tip to keep the candles burning. The next chapter is written in the dark, and the ink is still wet.

​Sleep well—if you can.

​— The Night Writer."