The border was a mess.
Ayub stood with his arms crossed just beyond the customs checkpoint, jaw clenched, breath fogging in the morning cold. Trucks were backed up for nearly a kilometer, cargo delayed, tempers flaring. He'd been here for hours, running between inspectors, pleading with officers, digging through paperwork that should've been routine but had turned bureaucratic overnight.
Talha had called him before Fajr.
"They stopped us," he'd said flatly. "New shift. New officer. He's not letting us through. Says we're missing clearance."
It was a mistake. A glitch. One that had quickly snowballed into a threat against a multimillion-kilometer delivery line. Talha had sent over the documents. Ayub had brought backups. Still, the men behind the glass refused to budge. Some of them just liked the power. Others were covering for someone else's incompetence.
Ayub had tried every strategy. Logic. Charm. Patience. Now he was trying not to lose his temper.
He glanced down at his phone and typed out a quick message:
Need backup. Border crossing. Now.
He hit send to Imran.
And waited.
Twenty-three minutes later, Imran arrived.
He stepped out of the black SUV, moving slower than usual, one hand subtly braced at his side. His coat was tailored, his posture proud, but even the way he inhaled revealed pain. Still, his tie was perfect, his face clean-shaven, and his presence undeniable.
Ayub raised a brow. "You alright?"
Imran adjusted his sleeve stiffly. "Lamija set Caesar on me last night."
A voice behind them snorted. "The horse or your sister?"
Talha.
Tall, broad-shouldered, with hands like sledgehammers and a scowl that could turn glass to sand, Talha looked like a man designed to win fights and lose sleep. His nose had been broken more than once—crooked just enough to make people think twice. A scar cut across his left eyebrow, a relic from a childhood accident—or a brawl; no one knew for sure. His presence was heavy, the kind that made people glance over their shoulder before speaking.
He looked like trouble.
He usually was.
His t-shirt stretched across his chest, sleeves hugging thick arms lined with old scars and muscle hard-earned from years of training and temper-fueled discipline. His jaw worked like he was grinding something bitter between his teeth. He said little, but he watched everything. And when he did speak, it often came out sharp and too honest. Ayub knew Talha's silence wasn't calm—it was pressure held in place.
"Same thing," Imran muttered. "One just chews hay. The other chews souls."
Despite the pain, Imran still walked like he owned the earth beneath him. The border officers didn't know about Caesar. They just saw a Begović and snapped to attention.
Ayub watched the shift happen instantly. The border officers who had barely looked at him straight suddenly scrambled to straighten their posture. The senior inspector moved first, hurrying out of his booth as if summoned.
Imran didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to. He spoke with clipped precision, his words crisp and cool as ice.
"You've detained one of our shipments for over five hours. No formal documentation explaining the delay. No escalation protocols followed. I have photos, signatures, and a stack of permits that say you're either sleeping on the job or deliberately delaying delivery for reasons you'd be smart not to put in writing."
The inspector stammered. Tried to explain.
Imran didn't blink. "This convoy moves now. Or I contact the Minister. And if I contact the Minister, it won't just be your badge you'll lose. It'll be your pension."
Within minutes, trucks were being waved through. Forms were stamped. Documents signed. Apologies muttered.
Ayub stood quietly to the side, watching it unfold with a strange mix of awe and irritation. He could never command a room like that. Imran didn't beg or explain. He expected. And people moved.
When the last truck passed inspection, Imran turned to Ayub and handed him the signed clearance.
"Next time, text sooner."
"Thanks," Ayub said, with genuine gratitude.
Imran clapped a hand on his shoulder—his other arm barely moving to avoid aggravating his ribs. "You handled it as long as you could."
"I just didn't have the right surname."
Imran gave him a look. "You've got the right spine. That matters more."
Talha leaned back against the bumper of his work truck, arms crossed. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. His posture said enough. Tired. Guarded. Defensive.
"You good?" Ayub asked.
"Fine," Talha muttered. "Just tired."
He looked like it. Tired and jumpy. Sweat on his brow despite the cold. Hollow eyes, like he hadn't slept properly in weeks.
Ayub noticed it then. A bruise—dark, fresh, high on his collarbone. A hickey. Unmistakable.
"You told us you were done with the one night stands," Ayub said.
Talha didn't look away. "I said that yeah."
Imran's voice was flat. "You've been praying. Fasting. Saying you're working on yourself."
"I am."
Ayub nodded toward the bruise. "That part of the program?"
Talha didn't respond. He didn't deny it. He didn't explain. Just stared off toward the mountains.
"We're not here to fight you," Ayub said. "We're trying to understand."
"You've been spiraling," Imran added. "And we're trying to help—for the hundredth time."
"I didn't ask you to," Talha muttered.
"Yeah, well, we're still here," Imran shot back.
Ayub watched the tension grow. Same argument. Same stone wall.
"You never talk," Ayub said. "We ask. You shut down. We push. You walk away. What do you expect us to do?"
Talha's eyes flicked to him, unreadable. "Nothing. I expect nothing."
Imran stepped forward. "You keep breaking yourself open and pretending it's healing. But it's not. You're bleeding out slow, and we're standing here with gauze, and you're pretending the wound doesn't exist."
"I know I'm fucking up," Talha said quietly.
It surprised them both. The honesty. The calm in it.
Ayub stepped closer. "Then why won't you let us help?"
Talha's jaw tightened. "Because there's nothing to help. I'm not confused. I'm not looking for advice. I just… don't care enough to stop."
"That's not true," Imran said.
Talha didn't argue.
Imran's voice dropped. "Then get married. Find someone who gives you a reason to stop."
Talha laughed, a low, humorless sound. "That's your solution to everything. Throw a ring at it. Cover it in a ceremony and pretend it's not still rotting underneath."
"It's a start," Imran said. "Better than falling into bed with strangers who don't even know your name."
Talha straightened, defensive again. "You think I haven't tried to be better? You think I don't beg Allah every night for something to be different?"
Imran didn't buy it. "Try harder, Talha."
Talha turned his face away. "I'm handling it."
"Clearly."
Ayub noticed Talha's fingers flexing and curling, like they didn't know what to do with the weight they carried.
"Talha," Imran said, softer now. "Whatever it is, you don't have to carry it alone."
Talha looked at him then. Not with anger. With something colder.
"Not everything can be fixed with Babo's money and your connections, Imran."
A truck engine rumbled in the background. Somewhere down the line, a radio crackled with static and folk music. But between the three of them, silence sat thick and loud.
Imran's face changed. Just slightly. The tightness in his jaw, the flicker in his eyes.
Imran nodded once. "Good to know where we stand."
He turned. Walked away without looking back.
Ayub didn't follow. Not immediately. He stayed with Talha.
"You didn't have to say that."
"I know."
"You hurt him."
"I know that too."
"Then why?"
Talha shrugged. "Because I'm tired."
Ayub studied him. This wasn't rebellion. It wasn't arrogance. It was surrender.
"He still came," Ayub said. "He always does."
Talha's voice was almost a whisper. "I didn't ask him to."
Ayub's jaw tightened. "That's the problem, Talha. You never do."
And he walked away.
Talha didn't move.
Didn't call him back.
Didn't ask them to stay.
Borderlines.
On maps. In silence. Between brothers.
And in all the spaces where words refused to go.