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The border was a mess.
I stood with my arms crossed just beyond the customs checkpoint, breath fogging in the morning cold, jaw locked tight. Trucks were backed up for nearly a kilometer. Cargo delayed. Tempers flaring. And the man in charge of the checkpoint was getting drunk off the power that came with holding up a multimillion-kilometer delivery line.
Talha had called just before Fajr.
"They stopped us," he'd said. "New shift. New officer. He's not letting us through. Says we're missing clearance."
It was a mistake. A glitch. One that was snowballing into a PR and logistics nightmare. I brought the backups. Re-sent the manifests. I tried logic, respect, even flattery. Nothing worked. Some men just like to be begged.
Finally, I texted the one person they always listened to.
Need backup. Border crossing. Now.
Twenty-three minutes later, Imran arrived.
He moved slower than usual—shoulders tighter, one hand subtly bracing near his ribs. Not enough to draw attention, but enough for me to notice.
Still, the coat was pressed, the watch gleamed, and his face was unreadable.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡE7qeBzys2P
His pain, as always, didn't make it past his collar.
The moment he stepped out of the SUV, officers started adjusting their posture like he was gravity itself.
"You alright?" I asked, quietly.
He adjusted his sleeve. "Lamija set Caesar on me last night."
A voice behind us cut in—low, rough, edged with amusement.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuXvden0d93
"You must've earned it."
I turned.
Talha wasn't usually on border runs, but this one was sensitive—tight delivery window, high-value cargo, and a new customs officer already throwing his weight around. Sending Talha was our version of sending a warning shot.
I'd seen him just last night at the gym—but here, standing under the gray morning sky, jaw locked and eyes sharp, he looked like a different version of the same weapon.
He was taller than most men remembered—broad-shouldered, dense with quiet strength. His frame was built like a tank: heavy arms, corded forearms, the kind of body that took punishment like armor. His shirt clung to muscle that wasn't showy—it was survival-shaped. His presence didn't just fill space; it pressed into it. Heavy. Controlled. Coiled like something waiting to strike.
His nose had been broken, slightly off-center. A scar cut across his brow. His jaw was locked tight. He stood like a fighter who'd just left the ring but hadn't stopped measuring the exits.
You didn't meet Talha without remembering him.
Imran didn't skip a beat. "I didn't do anything. They're just two sides of one psychotic coin. One chews hay. The other chews souls."
A flash of something passed through Talha's eyes. Humor, maybe. Or just exhaustion dressed up as it.
Even bruised, Imran knew how to move like power. And it worked. The moment he crossed the yellow line, the border agents who'd dismissed me turned deferential. The inspector came jogging.
Imran didn't raise his voice.
"You've detained our shipment for over five hours. No documented reason. No formal notice. And I have signed paperwork proving clearance was granted two days ago. So either someone's sleeping on the job—or you're deliberately interfering with licensed freight operations. Which would be a very bad mistake."
The man started to object.
Imran cut him off. "Move the trucks now. Or I call the Minister. If I call the Minister, I won't be asking for a delay report. I'll be asking for your badge."
In five minutes, our trucks were moving. Documents stamped. Delays waived. The air shifted—tension replaced with sudden, artificial cooperation.
Imran turned back and handed me the signed clearance. "Next time, text sooner."
I took it. "Thanks."
He clapped my shoulder—gently. "You handled it."
"I just didn't have the right surname."
"You've got the right spine. That matters more."
Talha stayed leaning against the truck. Silent. Still. Watchful.
"You good?" I asked.
He nodded once. "Y-Yeah. Just... t-tired."
But he didn't look just tired.
There was sweat on his brow despite the cold. His jaw was clenched. Eyes shadowed and rimmed dark. And just above the collar of his shirt, I caught a glimpse of it—deep purple, edged black.
A bruise.
Big. Fresh. Ugly.
It hadn't been there last night when we trained. And he hadn't sparred after we left—I would've known. We'd been up since Fajr dealing with this mess. There hadn't been time for anything but damage control.
I gestured toward his neck. "That new?"
He didn't look at me.
"Where'd it come from?"
Talha's jaw flexed. "Caught an elbow," he said finally. "In the last f-fight."
I stared at him. "You didn't have a mark on you last night."
He shrugged, still not meeting my eyes. "Guess it showed up late."
"By four days?" I asked.
Imran raised an eyebrow. "That the same fight that triggered the failed drug test?"
Talha didn't answer right away. Just shifted his weight like the ground was uncomfortable beneath him.
"It w-was just p-pain m-med-dication," he muttered.
"You sure about that?" I asked, quiet but firm.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡa6vNYrXMth
"You've been spiraling, Talha. First the test—now the fights. The women."
Talha's eyes didn't move. He didn't flinch. Didn't deny it.
Imran's voice sharpened. "You told me you were done."
"I w-was," Talha said.
Imran stepped closer. "Yeah? So if I tested you right now, you'd be clean?"
Talha didn't answer.
The silence stretched.
And then—quiet, rough:
"...Y-Yeah."
He looked away when he said it.
That was the part that landed hardest.
He didn't even believe his own lie anymore.
"You said you were trying." I said
"I a-am," he said quietly. "I j-just—when I start fee-- feeling like I c-can't breathe, I... I reach for som-mething. A-Anything."
Imran's voice dropped, low and firm. "So you reach for pills. And strangers."
Talha didn't answer.
Didn't argue.
Didn't apologize.
And somehow, that felt worse.
"You don't talk to us," I said. "You disappear. You come back wrecked. You act like we're just supposed to stand here and watch you burn."
"I n-never asked y-you to," Talha said.
Imran stepped in, voice low and sharp.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡlTnkyC0hPV
"That's the part that pisses me off."8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjkYINKaHa9
"You think we're here because we have to be. Because it's routine. You don't get it, Talha. We're here because we give a damn. And you keep treating us like that's optional."
"I d-didn't mean to f-fail the t-test," Talha said. "It was p-probably still in my sys... s-system. I t-thought I had m-more time."
Imran's stare was ice. "You don't have time. Not anymore. You're one mistake away from losing everything."
Talha's hands curled at his sides, but his face stayed still.
"I d-didn't ask for any...a-anyone to c-clean up after me."
That landed harder than it should've.
"We're not here to clean up after you," Imran said, his voice low, almost tired. "We're here because we care. And you act like that's the burden."
Talha didn't answer. Didn't argue. Just stared past us.
"I'll f-fix it," he said eventually.
I studied him.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡeaBxJDy9lD
He said the words like they were enough.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNoQBhsaymA
But his eyes—8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡm5GYe3JqZo
His eyes didn't believe a damn thing.
Imran exhaled hard. He didn't step back. He stepped closer.
"You think we're here to scold you?" he asked. "Talha, we're trying to help you. Before you lose everything. Before you lose yourself."
Talha didn't blink. Didn't look away.
"Let me help," Imran said. Softer now. "Whatever it is—whatever's happening—just let me in."
That silence again.
And then—Talha broke it.
He looked straight at Imran and said, voice low and cutting:8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxKrNHqHjU5
"N-Not e-everything can be f-fixed with your Babo's m-money and your Begović c-connections, Imran."
Imran didn't react.
Not right away.
But I saw it.
The flicker in his expression.
Like something slipped loose inside him.
He gave a slow nod.
"Good to know where we stand."
Then he turned and walked away.
I stayed behind.
"You didn't have to say that," I said.
"I k-know."
"You hurt him."
"I k-know that t-too."
"Then why?"
Talha rubbed a hand over his face. "Because I'm t-tired, Ayub."
And it wasn't attitude.
It wasn't defiance.
It was defeat.
"He still came," I said. "He always does."
"I d-didn't ask h-him to."
I nodded.
"That's the problem, Talha. You never do."
And I walked away.
He didn't stop me.
Didn't call me back.
Didn't ask me to stay.
Some borderlines are drawn on maps.
Others are etched in silence.
And those—the ones between brothers—are the hardest to cross.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Welcome to rock bottom—Talha's been redecorating.
We've got drug test failures, midnight hookups, and emotional implosions at national checkpoints.
All that's missing is a therapist and a tasbih.
But sure, Talha.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrrxNQNyT3f
Tell us again how you're "fine."
—Ash&Olive
8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡs27O7sda0z
