"I thought I'd failed you," Matthew's voice cracked. "I thought I'd let you die."
"You didn't fail." Farid's response was barely audible. "You kept me alive long enough for Hoyle's extraction team to take over. You did what you were supposed to do."
They stood in the fog-wrapped harbor, holding each other like survivors of the same shipwreck. When they finally separated, both men's eyes shimmered with unshed tears.
Farid cleared his throat. "Well, this is a little awkward. Should we form a support group? Survivors of Hoyle's Manipulative Theatre Company?"
I laughed. Sharp and sudden, the sound escaped before I could contain it.
Some things never change. Even after everything they'd done to him, Farid still deflected profound emotion with perfectly timed sarcasm.
I grinned. "Good to have you back."
"Good to be back." Farid glanced between Matthew and me, noting how we stood close enough for our shoulders to touch. "Though I see I've missed some interesting developments."
Matthew reached for my hand, weaving our fingers together. "A few things have changed."
"Indeed." Farid smiled. "We should talk. All of us. There's much to explain, and not much time to do it."
The fog pressed closer around us, muffling the distant harbor sounds. Three men stood at the intersection of past trauma and an uncertain future.
We found a cluster of abandoned shipping crates stacked near the pier's edge, their corrugated surfaces streaked with rust and salt residue. Farid settled onto an overturned wooden pallet, while Matthew and I claimed adjacent crates that creaked under our weight.
Farid pulled a dented flask from his jacket pocket, unscrewed the cap, and took a careful sip. His hands trembled. Three years of captivity had left marks deeper than the visible scars.
"Afghanistan first," I said. "The convoy. What really happened?"
"The explosion was real. Vehicle damage, casualties—all genuine. But my injuries?" He gestured toward his torso with a bitter smile. "Theater."
Matthew went rigid beside me. "Theater?"
"Five minutes between blast and your arrival. Enough time for prosthetics, pig's blood, performance briefing." Farid took another sip, longer this time. "Die convincingly but not immediately. Make the medic believe completely."
Matthew's radio crackled. Marcus's voice cut through the fog: "Movement on the perimeter. Two vehicles, government plates, holding position six blocks out."
I felt Matthew tense. "How long do we have?"
"Unknown. They're not advancing yet."
Farid didn't seem surprised. "They're always watching. Part of the game." He stood abruptly, pacing to the pier's edge where harbor water lapped against concrete. "Your grief had to be authentic, Matthew. They study trauma responses like market data."
"Authentic? For what?" Matthew's voice cracked.
"So you could let me go, and I could meet Dorian. Fate made me the guide to bring the two of you together. Dorian needs someone who can see past his defenses. Someone who comforts the broken because—"
"Because someone has to," Matthew finished.
The flask slipped from Farid's fingers, clattering against concrete. Amber whiskey pooled in the cracks between pier sections. "I watched you grieve for me through surveillance feeds. Watched you suffer with guilt that belonged to them, not you."
I stood, my ribs protesting. "You orchestrated our meeting? On the freeway?"
"No, that surprised me, but after the hospital," Farid's voice turned sharp, "You are brilliant, paranoid, and self-destructive. You will get yourself killed rather than surrender. Until you find someone whose welfare matters more than your stubborn pride."
The radio crackled again. "Vehicles are moving. ETA eight minutes."
Matthew was on his feet, his hand instinctively checking his weapon. "We need to wrap this up."
"The hospital," I pressed. "How did you know I was there?"
