The Ghost in Hangar 7: The Watch That Stopped an Admiral

Part 1: The Invisible Man

You learn to disappear in plain sight. It’s a skill, like field stripping a rifle in the dark or calculating windage on a mile-long shot. You hunch your shoulders just enough to look beaten down. You walk with a shuffle instead of a stride. You let your eyes glaze over, looking past people instead of through them.

For ten years, I’ve perfected the art of being nobody.

My world is the smell of hydraulic fluid and JP-5 jet fuel. It’s the screech of impact wrenches echoing off the corrugated metal walls of Hangar 7 at Naval Air Station Oceana. It’s the gray coveralls that hang loose on my frame, blending me into the concrete floor until I’m just another piece of equipment—essential, but ignored.

I am Dorian Ashlock. To the hotshot pilots who strut past without a glance, I’m the invisible grease monkey who fixes their landing gear. To the civilian contractors I work with, I’m “Grandpa,” the quiet, weird guy with the busted watch and the tuna sandwich packed in wax paper.

They have no idea that the “old man” wiping grease off a strut could kill everyone in this room with a wrench and a ballpoint pen before the first body hit the floor. And I intend to keep it that way.

The morning sun was cutting through the bay doors like a laser, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. I was hunched over the hydraulic lift of an F-18, the metal cold and biting under my fingertips. My hands moved with a rhythm that had nothing to do with enthusiasm and everything to do with muscle memory.

Tighten. Check seal. Wipe. Repeat.

“Morning, Grandpa!”

The voice grated against my eardrums like sand in a gearbox. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t stiffen. I just kept turning the wrench, feeling the torque click into place.

Gryom. Mid-20s, loud, insecure, and desperate to prove he was still the big man on campus because he did four years as an aviation mechanic before getting out. He wore his past service like a shield, using it to bludgeon anyone he deemed lower on the food chain. In his mind, the hierarchy was simple: Active Duty were gods, Veteran Contractors were demigods, and civilians like me—who he assumed had never served a day in our lives—were peasants.

“Hey, I’m talking to you, Ashlock,” Gryom pressed, stepping into my peripheral vision. He smelled of cheap body spray and aggression.

I finally looked up, keeping my expression slack, my eyes dull. “Good morning, Gryom.”

He elbowed the new guy, Felman, a kid who looked like he was barely out of high school. “Look at him. Probably thinking about his retirement home bingo night. Hey, Dorian, you get that antique working yet?”

He gestured to my left wrist.

I instinctively covered it with my other hand, a defensive tic I hadn’t managed to kill. The watch hung loose, the leather strap cracked and stained dark with sweat and oil. The crystal face was a roadmap of scratches, so cloudy you could barely read the numbers. The steel casing looked like it had been chewed on by a garbage disposal.

“It works fine,” I murmured, turning back to the jet.

“Thing looks like trash,” Gryom laughed, the sound bouncing around the hangar. “Seriously, man. I bet you got that for five bucks at a Goodwill. Why don’t you get a G-Shock like a real man?”

Because a G-Shock didn’t survive Spin Boldak, I thought. Because a G-Shock wasn’t the last thing I looked at before the world went black.

“It tells time,” I said simply.

Lena, our lead tech, walked by, her boots clicking sharply on the concrete. She was the only one who looked at me with anything other than disdain. Sometimes, I caught her studying me, her eyes narrowing as if she was trying to solve a math problem that didn’t add up.

“Gryom, knock it off,” she snapped, not breaking stride. “Dorian’s numbers are better than yours. Maybe if you spent less time running your mouth and more time turning wrenches, we wouldn’t be behind schedule on the Super Hornet.”

Gryom flushed red, his ego bruised. He muttered something under his breath about “civilian trash” and stalked off, kicking a tool cart as he went.

I didn’t care. I let the insult wash over me like rain. Pride is a luxury for men who don’t have a bounty on their heads. I checked the pressure gauge on the hydraulic line. Green. Good.

I took a breath, letting the chemical tang of the hangar fill my lungs. I was safe here. Hidden in the noise and the grime. I checked the time on the scratched face of my watch. 12:00. Lunch.

I sat on my cooler in the corner, away from the breakroom gossip. I pulled out my phone, shielding the screen. A text from “Dad.”

Can you pick me up early? Science fair setup keeps falling over. Need help.

A smile—a real one—cracked the mask I wore. My daughter. Ripley. She was the reason I endured Gryom. She was the reason I swallowed my pride. She was the reason I was still breathing.

3:15. I’ll be there with the duct tape, I typed back.

I looked at her picture on my wallpaper. She was holding a papier-mâché volcano, grinning with a missing front tooth. She didn’t know about the files in the encrypted drive hidden in the wall of our apartment. She didn’t know her father wasn’t just a mechanic. She just knew I was Dad.

The peace lasted exactly two hours.

At 14:30, the announcement system crackled to life, the feedback whine making everyone wince.

“Attention all hands. Attention all hands. Admiral Saurin Blackwell is on deck. Surprise inspection of Hangar 7 commencing immediately. All personnel to stations. Repeat. Admiral Blackwell is on deck.”

The atmosphere in the hangar shifted instantly. It was physical, like the air pressure dropping before a tornado.

Officers who had been lounging with coffee cups suddenly looked like they’d been electrocuted. Khakis were straightened. Clipboards were grabbed. The casual banter died, replaced by the frantic whispering of men terrified for their careers.

“Blackwell?” Gryom whispered, his eyes wide. “No way. The Ghost?”

“Who?” Felman asked, wiping grease off his hands frantically.

“Admiral Saurin Blackwell,” Gryom said, his voice hushed with reverence. “Guy is a legend. Ran JSOC operations in Syria. They say he coordinated the takedown of the entire ISIS leadership in Raqqa from a tent in the desert. He eats nails for breakfast.”

I froze.

My blood ran cold, the temperature in my veins dropping ten degrees in a second.

Blackwell.

I knew that name. I didn’t just know the legend; I knew the man. I knew how he took his coffee (black, two sugars). I knew the way he tapped his pen against the table when he was lying. I knew the sound of his voice over a secure comms line when he told us that air support wasn’t coming.

He thinks I’m dead.

The official report said I burned to death in a compound in Kandahar ten years ago. If he saw me… if he recognized me… the life I had built for Ripley would disintegrate.

“Look busy,” Lena hissed, walking down the line, checking everyone. “Do not speak unless spoken to. Eyes front.”

I turned my back to the main aisle, burying my head in the fuselage of the jet. Just be the mechanic. Just be the furniture. He won’t look at a civilian. He never looked at civilians.

The bay doors rolled open wider. The sound of boots hitting the floor was synchronized, a rhythmic clack-clack-clack that signaled the arrival of the apex predators.

Admiral Blackwell walked in.

Even from the corner of my eye, I could feel the gravity he generated. He was in his late 50s, silver hair cropped high and tight, his dress whites blindingly bright against the industrial gloom. His chest was a fruit salad of ribbons—commendations for valor, service, and campaigns that most people didn’t even know the US had fought.

But it was his eyes that were dangerous. They were hawk-like, scanning the hangar not for what was right, but for what was wrong. He moved with a predatory grace, his aides trailing him like remora fish behind a shark.

He stopped at the first aircraft. He ran a gloved hand over a rivet. He asked a question. The junior officer stammered. Blackwell moved on.

He was coming closer.

I kept working. My heart was hammering against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat that I forced to slow down. Breathe. In for four. Hold for four. Out for four.

He was ten feet away.

“This maintenance log,” Blackwell’s voice cut through the silence. It was deep, gravelly, the voice of a man used to being obeyed instantly. “It’s sloppy.”

“S-sorry, sir,” a nervous Ensign squeaked. “We’ve been short-staffed.”

“Excuses are the nails that build the coffin of failure, Ensign,” Blackwell said coldly.

He turned. He was looking at the civilian section now.

I felt his gaze sweep over my back. I didn’t move. I kept tightening a bolt that was already tight.

“Hey! Admiral! Sir!”

My stomach dropped. Gryom.

The idiot was waving his hand, stepping forward with a grin that was half-nerves, half-arrogance. The entire hangar froze. You do not hail a three-star Admiral like a cab driver.

Blackwell stopped. He turned slowly, fixing Gryom with a look that would have vaporized a lesser man. “Yes?”

Gryom swallowed hard, realizing his mistake, but he was too far gone to back down. He needed to be part of the show. He pointed a finger. Straight at me.

“I just… I heard you like military history, sir. Real history.”

Blackwell raised an eyebrow. “I have an appreciation for it.”

“Well,” Gryom smirked, his confidence returning as he found a target to deflect the tension. “You should check out Ashlock over there. He plays soldier. Wears this busted-up old watch, calls it his ‘service record.’ Says it’s been through hell.”

Gryom laughed, looking around for validation. A few nervous chuckles rippled through the junior ranks. “Grandpa thinks he’s a hero because he owns a broken piece of junk.”

I closed my eyes for a fraction of a second. I am going to kill him. I am going to wait for him in the parking lot and break his jaw.

But I didn’t. I just stood up. Slowly. Deliberately.

I turned around.

Blackwell was looking at me. He looked bored, annoyed that his inspection was being interrupted by civilian banter. “Is that so?” he drawled, checking his own pristine Rolex. “Let’s see this relic.”

He walked toward me. The crowd parted.

I had nowhere to go. If I ran, I was suspicious. If I stayed, I was exposed.

“Sir,” I said, pitching my voice low, adding a rasp that wasn’t usually there. “It’s nothing. Just an old watch. The strap is broken.”

Blackwell stopped three feet from me. He was tall, but I was taller. He looked me up and down, dismissing the gray coveralls, the grease stains, the weary face. He didn’t recognize me. Not yet. I had aged. I had a beard now. The scar on my chin was new.

“Humor me,” Blackwell said, holding out his hand. “I happen to like antiques.”

The room was dead silent. Lena was biting her lip. Gryom was grinning like a hyena.

I had a choice. Refuse a direct order from an Admiral and cause a scene that would lead to an ID check, or show him the watch and pray the grime covered the truth.

I lifted my left arm.

I turned my wrist over.

The overhead lights hit the scratched glass. The watch looked pathetic. Just a hunk of beat-up steel on a rotting leather strap.

Blackwell leaned in, a polite, condescending smile on his face. He expected a Timex from 1990. He expected a piece of junk.

His eyes focused on the back casing, where the leather had shifted slightly.

Etched into the steel, barely visible beneath a decade of scratches and oil, was a symbol.

A Trident. Wrapped in barbed wire.

And beneath it, in tiny, jagged letters: DEVGRU 7 – TASK UNIT WRAITH.

The smile vanished from Blackwell’s face so fast it looked like a video glitch.

The color drained from his skin, leaving him a waxen gray. His knees actually buckled, a subtle dip that he caught instantly, but I saw it. His breath hitched in a sharp, audible gasp that echoed in the silent hangar.

His hand, reaching for the watch, froze in mid-air. His fingers trembled.

He looked up. He didn’t look at my coveralls anymore. He looked at my eyes. And for the first time in ten years, he really saw me.

“No,” he whispered, the word barely escaping his lips. “That’s impossible.”

I locked eyes with him. I dropped the “Grandpa” act. I dropped the shuffle. I stood to my full height, my shoulders squaring, my chin lifting.

“It’s possible, sir,” I said, my voice dropping the rasp, returning to the cold, flat tone of an operator.

Blackwell stared at me as if he were seeing a ghost. Because he was.

“You’re dead,” he breathed, his voice shaking. “We buried you.”

The Ghost in Hangar 7

Part 2: The Dead Men of Kandahar

The silence in the hangar was heavy, suffocating. It felt like the air before a mortar impact—a pressurized stillness that screams of incoming violence.

Admiral Blackwell didn’t collapse physically, but I saw his soul crumble. The arrogance, the stiff-backed posture of a man who commands fleets, it all evaporated. He stared at the Trident etched into my watch as if it were a radioactive isotope.

“Task Unit Wraith,” he whispered again, the words scraping out of his throat. “You were the cleanup crew. Operation Red Sand.”

“We were the distraction, sir,” I corrected him, my voice low and dangerous. “There’s a difference.”

Gryom, oblivious to the shift in atmospheric pressure, let out a nervous snort. “Sir? It’s just a scratched-up watch. Grandpa probably carved that himself with a pocket knife.”

Blackwell turned on him. The movement was so sudden, so violent in its precision, that Gryom actually flinched back, dropping his soda.

“Get out,” Blackwell snarled.

Gryom blinked. “Sir?”

“Clear the hangar!” Blackwell’s voice roared, echoing off the steel rafters like a thunderclap. It wasn’t a request; it was a command that triggered a primal flight response in every human being in the room. “Every officer, every contractor, every technician. OUT. NOW!”

The panic was immediate. Officers scrambled, clipboards clattered to the floor, and the heavy bay doors were pushed open by junior aides desperate to escape the blast radius. Lena looked at me, her eyes wide with confusion and a sudden, dawning realization, but she didn’t argue. She grabbed Gryom by the collar of his shirt and dragged him backward.

“Move, you idiot,” I heard her hiss.

Within sixty seconds, the hangar was empty. Just me, the Admiral, and the silent jets.

Blackwell turned back to me. His hands were shaking. He clasped them behind his back to hide it, but I saw.

“I signed the condolence letters,” he said, his voice hollow. “Sixteen men. 2014. Spin Boldak. The intel said the safe house was compromised. We were told the Taliban overran the perimeter and detonated the ordinance locker. No survivors.”

“The ordinance locker didn’t detonate, Admiral. We used it,” I said, leaning back against the landing gear of the F-18, crossing my arms. “For 72 hours, we held that compound against three hundred insurgents. We were waiting for the QRF (Quick Reaction Force). We were waiting for the air support you promised.”

Blackwell closed his eyes, pained. “The mission was scrubbed. CIA pull-back. They told me there was no one left to save.”

“They lied,” I said simply. “Or maybe they just did the math. Sixteen operators and thirty-four civilian contractors versus a political scandal? We were cheaper to bury.”

“How did you get out?”

“Three of us walked out,” I said. “Me, Miller, and Vance. We carried the contractors through the sewers to the border. But we knew the score. If we came back, we’d be liabilities. Loose ends in a classified screw-up. So we traded our dog tags for silence. Miller drank himself to death in ’18. Vance is running a fishing charter in Mexico under a fake name. And I…”

I gestured to my grease-stained coveralls. “I fix your planes.”

Blackwell looked at me, really looked at me. He saw the gray in my beard, the lines around my eyes, but he also saw the man underneath. The man who had held the line when the world turned its back.

“You stayed,” he said, bewildered. “You stayed in the Navy’s shadow.”

“It’s the last place anyone looks for a dead man,” I replied. “And I have a daughter now, Admiral. Ripley. She’s eight. She thinks I’m boring. I intend to keep it that way.”

Blackwell took a deep breath, steadying himself. He stood at attention. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his right hand.

It wasn’t a crisp, ceremonial salute. It was slow, heavy with regret and reverence. A salute from one warrior to another who had paid a price that couldn’t be calculated in currency.

“I didn’t know,” he whispered.

I stared at him. For ten years, I had hated the brass. I had hated the suits who signed the papers. But looking at Blackwell, I saw the guilt eating him alive. He wasn’t the villain; he was just another cog in the machine, same as me.

I slowly returned the salute. “Permission to get back to work, sir?”

Blackwell dropped his hand. “Denied. You’re done for the day, Ashlock. Go home to your daughter.”

He turned and walked out of the hangar, his gait unsteady. I watched him go, feeling a strange mixture of relief and dread. The secret was out. The seal was broken.

As I packed my tools, my phone buzzed. I expected a text from Ripley.

Instead, it was a notification from a news app. Then a text from Lena. Then a message from a number I didn’t recognize.

Video is viral. They know.

My blood ran cold. I opened the news link Lena had sent.

Someone—probably a kid hiding behind a tool cart or filming through the window—had caught the salute. The headline screamed: “WHY DID A 3-STAR ADMIRAL SALUTE A JANITOR? THE MYSTERY OF HANGAR 7.”

The video had 2 million views in two hours.

I wasn’t invisible anymore. I was trending.

I grabbed my thermos and ran for my truck. The drive to Ripley’s school was a blur of paranoia. I checked my rearview mirror every six seconds.

Black SUV. Four cars back. Tinted windows.

It was subtle, but I knew the profile. Government plates, or private military contractors hired to clean up loose ends. The “Agency” didn’t like it when dead men started trending on Twitter.

I pulled up to the elementary school, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. Ripley was waiting by the curb, holding her papier-mâché volcano. She looked so small, so fragile.

“Dad!” she yelled, waving.

I unlocked the doors. “Get in, Rip. Quick.”

“Is everything okay?” she asked, climbing in and buckling up. “You look sweaty.”

“Just a hot day at work,” I lied. “We’re going to Aunt Marissa’s for a bit.”

“But the Science Fair is tomorrow! I have to present ‘Mount Boom’!”

“We’ll make it,” I promised, watching the black SUV turn the corner behind us. “But first, we need to take a little detour.”

I didn’t go home. I couldn’t. They would be there. I drove erratically, taking three right turns, cutting through a mall parking lot, doubling back on the highway. The SUV stayed with me. They were pros.

My phone buzzed again. Unknown Caller.

I answered, putting it on speaker but keeping the volume low so Ripley wouldn’t hear.

“Mr. Ashlock,” a voice said. Smooth. Synthetic. “You’ve become a celebrity.”

“I prefer ‘ghost’,” I said, my eyes locked on the rearview mirror.

“Ghosts don’t have daughters,” the voice said. “We can make this go away, Dorian. The video, the rumors. We can scrub it. But you need to come in. Alone.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then Ripley becomes an orphan for real this time.”

I hung up. My hand crushed the phone so hard the screen cracked.

“Dad?” Ripley asked, her voice trembling. “Who was that?”

I looked at her. I saw the fear in her eyes. I had spent a decade trying to protect her from my past, but the past is a hungry animal. It always finds you.

“Ripley,” I said, my voice steady. “You know how I told you I used to fix trucks in the desert?”

“Yeah?”

“I did a little more than that. And some bad guys are mad that I’m still here.”

I pulled the truck into a crowded gas station. Public. Cameras. Safe for a moment.

“We’re going to play a game,” I told her. “It’s called ‘Invisible’. Just like we practiced.”

I grabbed my laptop bag from the back seat. Inside, stitched into the lining, was a MicroSD card. The insurance policy.

I wasn’t going to run. I wasn’t going to hide.

They threatened my daughter. That was a tactical error.

Part 3: The Resurrection

I dropped Ripley off at my sister Marissa’s house, ignoring Marissa’s frantic questions about the news report playing on her TV.

“Lock the doors,” I told her, handing her a burner phone. “Don’t open it for anyone but me or Admiral Blackwell. If I don’t call you in three hours, take Ripley and drive to Canada.”

“Dorian, what the hell is happening?” Marissa cried.

“Monday is the Science Fair,” I said, kissing Ripley on the forehead. “I promised I’d be there.”

I drove back to my apartment. The black SUV was parked across the street now. I didn’t sneak in. I walked right up to the front door, unlocked it, and went inside.

I sat at my kitchen table and opened my laptop. I slotted the MicroSD card in.

It contained everything. The mission logs from 2014. The audio recordings of the request for air support. The denial orders signed by the CIA station chief. The body cam footage of my team dying while Washington decided it was too politically risky to save us.

I drafted an email.

To: The Washington Post, New York Times, CNN, Admiral Saurin Blackwell. Subject: The Truth About Task Unit Wraith.

I hovered my finger over the enter key. This was the nuclear option. If I sent this, the government would fall. Careers would end. People would go to prison. But it would also paint a target on my back that would never wash off.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The sound was polite, rhythmic.

I walked to the door and opened it.

Two men in suits stood there. They didn’t look like cops. They looked like accountants who knew how to break necks.

“Mr. Ashlock,” the lead one said, smiling. “Please invite us in.”

“You’re blocking my view of the sunset,” I said.

“The Admiral is very upset about the video,” the suit said, stepping forward. “He wants to contain the situation. We’re here to escort you to a secure facility.”

“I already spoke to the Admiral,” I said.

“Not Blackwell,” the suit sneered. ” The other people. The ones who sign Blackwell’s checks.”

He reached inside his jacket.

I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed the doorframe and swung my leg, catching him in the knee. The joint snapped with a sickening pop. He went down screaming. The second man lunged, drawing a silenced pistol.

I stepped inside his guard, grabbing his wrist and twisting it until the gun clattered to the floor. I slammed his head into the drywall. He crumpled.

It took four seconds. I wasn’t a mechanic anymore. I was DevGru.

I picked up the gun and unloaded it, tossing the magazine into the trash.

“Tell your boss,” I said to the man groaning on the floor with the broken knee, “that if anything happens to me or my daughter, the email goes out. I have a deadman’s switch. Every news outlet in the world gets the files in 60 minutes unless I enter a code.”

The man stared at me with hate, but also fear.

“Get out of my house.”

They limped away. I locked the door and sat back down at the computer.

My phone rang. It was Blackwell.

“Ashlock,” his voice was urgent. “I have people coming for you. My people. Marines. Are you safe?”

“I handled it,” I said, my adrenaline fading into a cold focus. “Admiral, I need a favor.”

“Name it.”

“I need an escort to the Ocean View Elementary Science Fair tomorrow night.”

There was a pause. “The Science Fair?”

“I promised my daughter.”

The gymnasium smelled of floor wax and nervous sweat. Parents milled around, looking at baking soda volcanoes and potato clocks. But the atmosphere was different tonight.

There were four Marines in full dress uniform standing at the doors.

There were news crews outside, kept back by a perimeter of MPs.

I stood next to Ripley’s table. She was wearing her best dress, bouncing on her heels. “Do you think the judges will like the magma simulation?” she asked, oblivious to the fact that half the parents were staring at me and whispering.

“It’s perfect, kiddo,” I said, adjusting her display board.

Gryom and Lena walked in. Gryom looked like he wanted to crawl into a hole. He approached me slowly.

“Dorian,” he mumbled, looking at his shoes. “I… I didn’t know. The video… the news… they’re saying you saved thirty people.”

“Forget it, Gryom,” I said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Just don’t touch my tools on Monday.”

He looked up, shocked. “You’re coming back?”

“I have a job to do. Those F-18s don’t fix themselves.”

Suddenly, the room went quiet.

Admiral Blackwell walked in. But he wasn’t alone. He was followed by a dozen other men. Some were old, some young. Some in wheelchairs, some leaning on canes. They weren’t wearing uniforms. They were wearing civilian clothes, but they moved with that same specific, dangerous grace.

They were the other “Ghosts.” Men from other units, other wars, who had heard the call.

Blackwell marched straight up to Ripley’s table. The judges—two terrified high school science teachers—stepped back.

“Miss Ashlock,” Blackwell said, bowing slightly. “I hear this is the premier volcano on the eastern seaboard.”

Ripley beamed. “It explodes, sir!”

“Excellent,” Blackwell smiled. He turned to me. He held out a small velvet box.

“The President authorized this an hour ago,” Blackwell said, his voice loud enough for the room to hear. “It’s usually a ceremony at the White House. But I figured you’d prefer to receive it here.”

He opened the box. The Navy Cross.

“For extraordinary heroism in action against an enemy of the United States,” Blackwell recited from memory. “Chief Petty Officer Dorian Ashlock. You are no longer erased, son. You are recorded.”

He pinned the medal onto my gray coveralls—I hadn’t bothered to change.

Flashbulbs popped from the doorway. The parents broke into applause. It started slow, then grew into a roar. Gryom was clapping hardest of all.

I looked down at Ripley. Her eyes were wide, glowing with pride. She didn’t understand the politics. She didn’t know about the kill teams or the blackmail. She just knew that the scary Admiral was calling her dad a hero.

“Dad,” she whispered. “Did you really save all those people?”

I knelt down, eye level with her. “I just made sure they got home to their families. Just like I’m always going to come home to you.”

I looked at the watch on my wrist. The scratched glass, the worn leather. It wasn’t a burden anymore. It was just a watch.

The next morning, the headlines changed. The “Black Ops” scandal was replaced by “The Hero in the Hangar.” The “Agency” backed off—the spotlight was too bright for them to operate in now. I was safe because I was famous.

I mailed the MicroSD card to Blackwell. I trusted him to do the right thing with the history books.

Three weeks later, I was back under the fuselage of a jet. The grease smelled the same. The metal felt the same.

“Hey, Dorian,” Gryom called out from the next bay. “You want turkey or ham on your sandwich? I’m making a run.”

“Ham,” I called back. “Extra mustard.”

I tightened the bolt. I checked the seal.

I am Dorian Ashlock. I am a father. I am a mechanic.

And finally, I am free.