FLUENT IN FORBIDDEN — CHAPTER FOUR

"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."

The garage of the Al-Faye estate was a cathedral to excess—rows of Ferraris, Porsches, and vintage Mercedes-Benzes, all kept in a state of perpetual shine by people like me.

At 2:00 AM, it was also the only place to hide.
I was finishing a late-night buff of the Boss’s SUV when the elevator hissed open. Julian stumbled out, but he wasn't drunk. He was vibrating with a different kind of energy—agitation. He held a set of keys to a 1967 black Corvette, a car he was strictly forbidden from touching.

"Get in," he snapped, throwing a leather jacket over his shoulder.

"Mr. Julian, it is past my shift, and that vehicle is—"

"I didn't ask for a legal brief, Oxford. I asked you to get in." He looked at me, his eyes wide and bloodshot and gave a tired sigh. "Please. I just need someone who won't ask questions in a language I have to answer."

I climbed into the passenger seat. The engine roared to life, a guttural scream that echoed off the concrete walls, and we peeled out into the humid Beirut night.

We hit the Damascus Road, climbing toward the mountains. Julian drove like a man trying to outrun his own shadow, the speedometer climbing into territory that made the chassis tremble.

"My father and mother died on a road like this," Julian said suddenly, his voice flat against the rushing wind. "Everyone says it was an accident. A 'brake failure' in the rain."

I watched his knuckles turn white on the steering wheel. This was it. The core of the rot.

"But you don't believe that," I said...not a question but a statement.

"I found a mechanic's report three years ago," he whispered, swerving around a sharp bend. "Hidden in my brother’s private files. The lines weren't worn, Mikael. They were cut. Clean. Precise."

He slammed on the brakes, the car skidding to a halt on a cliffside overlook. Below us, the lights of Beirut flickered like dying embers.

"My brother didn't just inherit the empire," Julian turned to me, his face twisted in a mask of grief. "He bought it with their blood. And now he’s doing it again with Layla. He’s selling her to Mansour to cover the debts he made while expanding into Europe."

He slumped against the wheel, the bravado of the "playboy" vanishing. He was just a man drowning in a house of murderers.

"Why tell me?" I asked softly.

"Because you're the only one who isn't part of the script," he said, looking at me with a desperate intensity. "You're a ghost. You're a genius hiding in a servant’s skin. You know how to move between worlds." He reached out, his hand shaking as he gripped my forearm. "Help me ruin him, Mikael. Help me steal the documents from his safe—the ones that prove what he did. I’ll give you your passport. I’ll give you enough money to buy a university in Paris. Just... don't leave me alone in this."

I looked at his hand on my arm, then up at his shattered expression. The "invisible" man was being offered a seat at the table of revenge.

“Venganza es un plato que se sirve frío,” I whispered in Spanish. “Revenge is a dish best served cold.”

Julian didn't care about the translation this time. He just leaned forward, resting his forehead against mine, breathing in the scent of the floor wax and old books that clung to my skin.

"Teach me that one tomorrow," he breathed. "Tonight, just stay."

"Daylight is coming to claim the quiet, but these words stay with you. If you enjoyed this journey into the midnight hours, leave a heart or a tip to keep the candles burning. Sleep well—if you can. — The Night Writer."