Chapter 5: The Life He Wanted

After leaving a few million in his daughter's new home, Bari spent the years that followed in quiet, which almost felt sacred. Dwight settled in a nameless coastal town far from New York's rot, far from the cigarette smoke, alley shadows, and gunmetal taste of his old life. Here, the streets were narrow but clean, flanked by peeling-painted shops and wind-battered awnings. The smell of salt clung to everything—clothes, bread, even the paper of his books.

His mornings were simple and deliberate. He'd wake before the sun, open the crooked shutters, and let the briny air roll in. Coffee brewed on the stovetop, black and bitter, poured into a chipped mug he'd found at a flea market. While the town still slept, Bari worked his body back into shape—push-ups on the wooden floorboards, pull-ups on the doorframe, slow shadowboxing until sweat darkened his shirt. He wasn't training for war anymore. He was just making sure he stayed alive long enough to enjoy the peace he'd bled for.

Breakfast was slow: eggs, toast, sometimes a strip of bacon from the butcher who still insisted on calling him "city man." Bari never corrected him. He liked the distance.

Afternoons belonged to stories. He read Shadow Slave and a hundred other novels, losing himself in worlds where sacrifice meant something, where loyalty was pure and betrayal came with a price. He marked the margins with neat pencil lines, circling sentences that felt like they had been written for him.

The pier became his favourite place in town. It jutted out into water so blue it seemed painted, the boards creaking under the weight of gulls and the occasional fisherman. Sometimes, when the sun dipped low and turned the waves to molten gold, Bari stood at the edge, hands in his pockets, just breathing. No past, no future—only the now.

It was the fire station that pulled him back into the rhythm of other people's lives. At first, he kept his distance, offering small help—fixing a jammed door, hauling gear, sweeping floors. But it didn't take long for the crew to notice that Bari moved differently in moments of urgency. The way he scanned a room before entering, the way he didn't flinch at sirens or flames.

That's when Elias showed up.

The rookie was twenty-three, bright-eyed, reckless, and too eager to prove himself. His uniform never sat quite right, his helmet always a little tilted, but there was a light in him that Bari hadn't seen in years. The kid asked questions—about firefighting, about life, about why Bari never talked about "before." Dwight answered the ones he could and let the rest drift away in silence.

They started sharing coffee after shifts, sometimes dinners at a small diner overlooking the beach. Elias would talk about the future—buying a boat, maybe travelling—while Bari listened, offering small nudges in the right direction without the kid even realising it. He didn't want to shape Elias into someone else; he just wanted to make sure he lived long enough to become himself.

One autumn night, a call came in about a house fire on the edge of town. Elias was first to the door, about to charge in blind. Bari caught him by the collar, dragging him back just in time for the front beam to collapse where he'd been standing. Later, Elias laughed it off, but Bari didn't. It was a quiet reminder that even in peace, danger waited around corners.

In the evenings, Bari walked home along the coast. The wind carried the sound of waves crashing against the rocks, and in the distance, lighthouse beams swept slowly across the horizon. He thought of the men he'd lost, the ones he'd betrayed, the blood that still lived in the cracks of his hands no matter how much he scrubbed.

But he also thought of the kid at the fire station, the smell of old books, the slow mornings, the ocean.

This, he realized, was the life he had wanted all along. Not riches, not power. Just enough.

And for now, enough was everything.