Thriller
FLUENT IN FORBIDDEN — CHAPTER FIVE
"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 storm that had been brewing over the Mediterranean finally broke, lashing the penthouse windows with a rhythmic, violent thrum. In the basement storage room, surrounded by crates of expensive vintage wine and spare linens, the air was thick enough to choke on. I was counting the inventory of the 2012 Bordeaux—the Boss’s favorite—when the door clicked shut. Julian was standing there, his linen shirt damp from the rain, his tie pulled loose. He looked at me, his eyes traveling from my scuffed work boots to the pen tucked behind my ear. "You're late for the lesson, Mr. International," he said. His voice was rough, a jagged edge of humor masking a deeper, more desperate hunger. "The lesson was canceled, Julian," I replied, not looking up from my clipboard. "Your brother is hosting a dinner for the Ministry. I have four dozen crystal glasses to polish before midnight." Julian moved then, fast and reckless. He swiped the clipboard from my hand, the metal clattering against the concrete floor. He stepped into my space, pinning me against the cold steel of the wine rack. "Screw the glasses," he whispered. "I can’t breathe in this house anymore. Every time I close my eyes, I see those cut brake lines. Every time I hear my brother’s voice, I hear a murderer." He leaned closer, his forehead dropping against my shoulder. "You’re the only thing that feels...real. Even if you are a beautiful, lying genius." I should have pushed him away. I should have reminded him of the hierarchy, the cameras, the danger. But as his hand found the back of my neck, my resolve shattered. "In syntax," I whispered, my voice dropping into that low, melodic register that I knew made his heart race, "the most important part of a sentence isn't the subject. It’s the verb. The action." I reached out, my fingers tangling in his damp hair, pulling his head back until he had to look at me. "You want to play the rebel, Julian? Rebels don't just talk. They take." Julian let out a low, guttural sound—a name I hadn't taught him yet. He crashed his lips against mine, a messy, frantic collision of teeth and salt and gin. It wasn't a "posh" kiss. It was the desperate act of a man who was drowning and had finally found a lifeline. I kissed him back with a ferocity that surprised us both. I tasted the rebellion on his tongue, the bitterness of his grief, and the sudden, explosive heat of our proximity. My hands slid down his back, pulling him flush against me, feeling the hard line of his body beneath the expensive fabric. He broke the kiss, gasping for air, his eyes searching mine. "What's the word for this?" he breathed. "In any of your languages, Mikael... what do you call this?" I trailed my fingers down his jaw, my thumb pressing into the center of his lower lip. "Incendio," I whispered in Italian. "Fire." Julian gripped my waist, his knuckles white. "Then let it burn. If we’re going to ruin my brother, let’s start by burning his house down from the inside." He pushed me back against the racks, his hands wandering with a new, frantic authority. The "servant" and the "master" were gone. In the dark of the storage room, we were just two men speaking a language that didn't need a single word. "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."
By The Night Writer 🌙 9 months ago in Chapters
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."
By The Night Writer 🌙 9 months ago in Chapters
FLUENT IN FORBIDDEN — CHAPTER THREE
"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 Al-Faye library was a tomb of books that no one read, bound in leather and smelling of vanilla and dust. I was supposed to be inventorying the collection—a task the Boss gave me to keep me out of sight while the "adults" discussed the shipping scandal downstairs. The heavy oak door creaked. Julian stepped in, but he wasn’t carrying a drink for once. He was carrying a slim black notebook and a look of intense, focused curiosity. "Spanish," he said, without preamble. He leaned against a mahogany shelf, crossing his arms. "I told my brother I’m interested in expanding our interests in Madrid. He thinks I'm finally taking the business seriously. He told me to hire a tutor." I didn't look up from the ledger. "I am sure there are many qualified professors in Beirut, Mr. Julian." "I don't want a professor. I want someone who knows how to keep a secret phone from being traced." He stepped closer, his shadow stretching over the desk. "I want to know how a man who scrubs floors knows the difference between a Cyrillic script and a security encryption." I finally set the pen down. "What is it you actually want, sir?" "Teach me," he whispered, his voice dropping an octave. He sat on the edge of the desk, dangerously close to my personal space. "Not just the words. I want to know how you do it. How you hear everything and stay so...calm." I looked at him. Up close, Julian wasn't just a mess; he was a beautiful disaster. His eyes were the color of the Mediterranean just before a storm. "Very well," I said, my voice slipping into the cold, precise tone of a teacher. "Sit. We will start with the phonetics of desire and distance." He blinked, surprised by my sudden authority. He sat. "In Spanish," I began, leaning in until I could smell the faint scent of his aftershave, "the way you breathe is as important as the way you speak. Repeat after me: ‘Estoy atrapado.’" "Es-toy a-tra-pa-do," he repeated, his accent clumsy but his gaze locked onto my lips. "Better. It means, 'I am trapped,'" I said softly. I reached out—a bold, calculated move—and placed my hand over his pulse point on his neck. His skin was hot. His heart hammered against my palm. "You are tense. If you speak with a tight throat, you sound like a tourist. You must relax the muscle here." I let my thumb graze the line of his jaw. Julian didn't pull away. He leaned into the touch, his breath hitching. The air in the library suddenly felt thick, charged with the kind of electricity that precedes a lightning strike. "Now," I whispered, my face inches from his. "Try: ‘Quédate conmigo.’" "Qué-date... con-migo," he breathed. "Good," I murmured. "It means, 'Stay with me.'" Julian’s hand came up, catching my wrist. He didn't move it away from his neck; he held it there, pressing my palm harder against his skin. "You're a dangerous man, Mikael. I think you've been 'staying' with us for a long time, watching us while we played our little games." "I see everything, Julian," I said, dropping the 'sir.' "And I think you’re tired of playing alone." For a moment, neither of us moved. The library was silent, the only sound the ticking of the grandfather clock and the heavy, synchronized thrum of two hearts. Then, the floorboards outside groaned. Julian snapped back, releasing my wrist as if it were white-hot. He opened his notebook to a random page just as his brother’s footsteps passed the door. I picked up my pen and returned to the ledger, my hand perfectly steady, though my blood was singing. He looked at me, a mix of frustration and newfound hunger in his eyes. He realized then that I wasn't just his tutor. I was his mirror. And he was starting to like what he saw. "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."
By The Night Writer 🌙 9 months ago in Chapters
FLUENT IN FORBIDDEN — CHAPTER TWO
"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 Al-Faye penthouse was a palace of glass, but even glass has cracks where secrets can hide. I was in the master wing, meticulously steaming the heavy silk curtains in Layla’s suite. She had just turned eighteen a mere four months earlier; the Boss’s only daughter, and the apple of an eye that was usually too busy counting money. But today, Layla wasn't the poised debutante her lineageand status required her to be. She was hunched over her vanity, her hands shaking as she clutched a cheap, plastic burner phone. "Mikael!" she gasped, nearly knocking over a bottle of Chanel No. 5 as I moved a chair. "I...I didn't hear you come in." "I am a ghost, Miss Layla," I said, the steamer hissing in my hand. "Ghosts don't make much noise." Her face went pale, her eyes darting to the phone, and said in shaky voice she clearly tried to make sound harsh with attitude, "You didn't see anything. If you tell my father, I'll tell him you were stealing from his safe. He’ll have you deported before the sun sets." I looked at her—really looked at her. She wasn't just a spoiled girl; she was terrified. And I knew why. I had seen the name on the screen before it went dark. Mansour. Mansour was forty, a shipping magnate, and her father’s primary business associate. He was currently downstairs in the study, drinking scotch with her father and discussing "investments." “Ti boyish'sya,” I murmured under my breath. "What?" she whispered, her eyes widening. "Nothing, Miss Layla." At the open door, Julian stumbled in, looking less like a socialite and more like a man who had crawled out of a storm. He took one look at Layla’s panicked face and then at the burner phone. "For God’s sake, Layla," Julian groaned, locking the door behind him. "I told you to stop. If my brother finds out you’re seeing Mansour behind his back, he won’t just kill him—he’ll lock you in this room until you’re thirty." "He loves me, Uncle Julian!" she cried, her voice cracking. "And he’s the only one who doesn't treat me like a piece of furniture!" "He's a shark, Layla! He’s using you for leverage against your father," Julian snapped. I tried moving quietly towards the door to give them some privacy, but Julian - only now noticing me turned - his eyes sharp and dangerous. He hadn't noticed me before, not really. Now, I was a witness. "And you. Mikael, right? You’ve got a very convenient front-row seat to a tragedy." He stepped into my space, his scent—expensive tobacco and salt—overwhelming the smell of the steam. "How much to keep your mouth shut? What’s the price for a worker who hears everything but says nothing?" he asked in a belittling voice. I turned off the steamer. The silence that followed was heavy. "I don't want your money, Mr. Julian," I said, my voice losing its subservient edge. "But if you want to keep her secret, you need to be smarter. Your brother has the WiFi monitored. That phone needs to be wiped and disposed of in the grease trap in the kitchen, not the trash. And you," I looked at Layla, "should stop using Cyrillic codes. Your father’s security team might not speak Russian, but they know how to use a translator." The room went dead silent. Julian’s jaw actually dropped. He looked at my faded uniform, then at my eyes, searching for the "dropout" he thought I was. "You... you speak Russian?" Julian whispered. "And you know about the WiFi encryption?" "I read," I said simply, stepping past him to pick up my cleaning tray. "In many languages. And I know that in this house, the only thing more dangerous than a lie is the truth." Julian watched me leave, a strange, reckless light dawning in his eyes. For the first time, he wasn't looking at "the help." He was looking at a lifeline. "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."
By The Night Writer 🌙 9 months ago in Chapters
Dragon Horse. Content Warning.
The first technique Aroon's grandfather teaches her is how to take a hit. The only way to strengthen a sword is to keep beating and beating the blade. His knee slams into her solar plexus, sucking all the air out of her lungs and squeezing enough tears out of her eyes to blur her vision in one swift move.
By Wen Xiaosheng9 months ago in Chapters
FLUENT IN FORBIDDEN
A Dispatch from the Desk of The Night Writer "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." They say that every secret has its own grammar. Some are written in blood; others are whispered in the dark corners of a billionaire’s penthouse, hidden behind the cadence of polite conversation. In the quiet hours, when the rest of the world has surrendered to sleep, I sit here to decode those whispers. Writing during the "dead hours"—that thin slice of time between 3:00 AM and dawn—requires a specific kind of surrender. It is when the logical mind sleeps and the more primal, observant self takes the pen. Fluent in Forbidden was born in those hours. I wanted to explore the idea that language is more than just a tool for communication; it is a weapon, a shield, and sometimes, a cage. This serial thriller follows a master linguist and a "posh disaster" of a prince as they navigate a conspiracy that stretches across the salt-sprayed coasts of the Mediterranean. In the world of these two men, every word carries a weight that can tip the scales of global power. We often think we speak a language, but in the Shadow Class, the language speaks us. It dictates where we can go, who we can love, and—most importantly—who we are allowed to kill. There is something inherently fascinating about a character who has everything and yet possesses nothing of value—no agency, no truth, no peace. The Prince in this story isn't just a figurehead; he is a study in what happens when the weight of a crown (or the intense expectation of one) meets a soul that wants to burn it all down. Pairing him with a master of words—someone who understands the hidden meanings behind the Prince’s calculated silences—creates the friction that drives this machine. I’ve moved this series to Vocal to give it a new home and a new audience. Whether you are a returning reader from Royal Road or a new face in the Shadow Class, I’m glad you’re here. This series is divided into distinct Arcs, each raising the stakes and stripping away the masks of our protagonists. The journey is mapped as follows: • Arc 1: The Gilded Cage: Here, we establish the parameters of the trap. We meet our protagonists in their natural habitats—environments of extreme wealth and extreme restriction. The focus is on the "translation of intent." • Arc 2: Open Waters: As we move from the Al-Faye estate to the Mediterranean, the structure of the story shifts. The safety of the walls is gone, replaced by the unpredictable, dangerous nature of the sea. • Arc 3 & Beyond: Without giving too much away, the conspiracy deepens and the world expands. The "Forbidden" isn't just a status—it's a destination. The first ten chapters will take you through the heart of Arc 1. Buckle up—the translation is just getting started. I don't just write for an audience; I write for a collective. When you leave a comment or "grade" a chapter, you are acting as an intelligence officer in this unfolding conspiracy. I read every theory, every critique, and every gasp. Sometimes, the shadows listen back. If you have thoughts on the Prince’s choices or the linguist’s hidden depths, do not keep them to yourself. The plot is a living thing, and your engagement is the oxygen that keeps it breathing. Hearts help the algorithm, but comments help the plot. If you enjoyed this journey into the midnight hours, please leave a ❤️—it helps other readers find the story. "Daylight is coming to claim the quiet, but these words stay with you. Leave a heart or a tip to keep the candles burning. Sleep well—if you can. — The Night Writer."
By The Night Writer 🌙 9 months ago in Chapters
FLUENT IN FORBIDDEN — CHAPTER ONE
"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." PROLOGUE Mikael is a ghost in a gilded cage. To the wealthy Al-Faye family in Beirut, he is just the uneducated domestic worker who scrubs their floors. They don’t know he’s a self-taught polyglot who understands their business secrets in six different languages. They don't know he's saving every cent to buy his way to a new life at the UN. Then there is Julian—the family’s "black sheep" brother. Half-Lebanese, half-Australian, and entirely unwanted. He’s the loud, arrogant mess who was never supposed to notice the help. Everything changes when Mikael catches Julian protecting the boss’s daughter from a scandal that could destroy them all. Now, the worker and the brother share a secret that puts a target on both their backs. In a country where their love is a crime and in a house where every wall has ears, they develop a secret language of their own—one spoken in hidden touches and whispers behind closed doors. But as the heat rises, so does the risk. Can Mikael translate his way to freedom, or will the weight of their forbidden words bury them both? THE POLYGLOT IN THE DUST The Al-Faye penthouse smelled of expensive lilies and the sterile, cold scent of air conditioning that never turned off. It was a palace of glass overlooking the Mediterranean, but to me, it was just four hundred square meters of surfaces that needed to be polished until they screamed. I was on my knees in the grand foyer, a microfiber cloth in one hand and a bottle of pH-balanced marble cleaner in the other. My earbuds were tucked under my hair, the wires snaking down my back beneath my cheap, starch-stiffened uniform. In my ears, a professor from the Sorbonne was lecturing on the nuances of Portuguese subjunctive verbs. “Caso eu pudesse...” I whispered under my breath, my voice lost in the rhythmic shush-shush of the cloth. If I were able...I wasn't supposed to be able. According to the papers my agent had forged, I was a junior high dropout from a village that didn't exist on most maps. To the Al-Faye family, I was a tool—a biological vacuum cleaner that occasionally made coffee. I heard the heavy thud of the elevator doors at the end of the hall. I didn't look up. Looking up was an invitation for an order, and I had three more rooms to finish before the Boss returned from the docks. But the footsteps that entered the foyer weren't the Boss’s polished Italian oxfords. These were heavy, stumbling, and followed by the metallic jangle of keys hitting the floor. "Bloody hell," a voice groaned. It was deep, rough with sleep or drink, and the accent was a jarring mix of Sydney suburbs and Beirut’s elite. I kept my head down, focusing on a streak of wax. This was Julian. The brother. The one they spoke about in low, annoyed tones during dinner. The mistake, his brother called him in Arabic. The parasite, his sister-in-law called him in French. I understood them both. Julian, apparently, did not. He stumbled past me, nearly tripping over my bucket. He stopped, his shadow falling over the patch of floor I was cleaning. I could smell him—expensive gin, tobacco, and the salt of the sea. "Hey," he said. It wasn't a greeting; it was a demand for attention. I paused my hand but kept my eyes on his leather boots. "Yes, Mr. Julian?" "Where’s my brother?" "Mr. Al-Faye is at the port until seven, sir," I replied in the flat, accented English I used as a mask. "Seven. Right. Great." He let out a dry, jagged laugh. He stayed there, hovering in my space. I could feel his gaze on the back of my neck. "You’re the new one, yeah? What’s your name?" "Mikael, sir." "Mikael," he repeated. He said it slowly, as if trying to find the rhythm of it. "You ever get tired of looking at the floor, Mikael? There’s a whole world out there. Most of it’s shite, but at least the view changes." I finally looked up, just a fraction. Julian Al-Faye was a mess of dark, sleep-mussled curls and eyes that looked like they hadn't seen a peaceful night in years. He looked like a man who was rotting in a gilded cage, and for a split second, I felt a dangerous surge of recognition. “Estamos na mesma cela, Julian,” I thought in Portuguese. We are in the same cell. "The floor is clean, sir," I said instead, my voice a dull monotone. "That is enough for me." He snorted, a bitter sound, and turned toward the kitchen. "Right. Suit yourself. If you find my dignity under one of those sofas, let me know. I think I dropped it somewhere near the Casino." I watched him go, his shoulders slumped beneath a linen shirt that cost more than my year’s salary. I reached up, tapped my earbud, and let the French professor fill my head again. I had three more languages to perfect and one year of salary to save. I was going to get out of this house, out of this city, and out of this skin. I just had to keep my mouth shut. But as Julian slammed a cupboard door in the kitchen and cursed in a language he barely understood, I realized that the hardest part of being a genius in a house of fools wasn't the work. It was the urge to answer back. If you enjoyed this, please leave a ❤️—it helps other readers find the story! "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."
By The Night Writer 🌙 9 months ago in Chapters
Corruption, Power, and Global Security Concerns
China’s Military Under Scrutiny: Corruption, Power, and Global Security Concerns China’s military, known as the People’s Liberation Army (PLA), is facing increased attention after reports of investigations into senior officials. According to international media, including reports discussed by security analysts, China has placed high-ranking military figures under investigation as part of its long-running anti-corruption campaign. While China describes these actions as internal discipline, the developments have raised questions about stability, command control, and global security.
By Wings of Time 9 months ago in Chapters
The Ink of the Void
The rain in Glenhaven didn’t just fall; it wept. It was a thick, shimmering precipitation that tasted faintly of ozone and old regrets. I watched it from my office window, the neon sign of the Wyvern’s Tail Tavern across the street flickering in a rhythmic, sickly purple. Every time the light hit a puddle, it sent a ripple of violet through the grime of the street. It was the kind of city where even the puddles felt like they were hiding something.
By Sai Marie Johnson9 months ago in Chapters
