Sayid Jarrah

My hands have built transmitters from wreckage and disarmed traps set by unseen foes. Once, those same hands obeyed orders that left scars no water can wash away. The island doesn’t care about my history—it only asks if I can still calculate the trajectory of a bullet or reroute a power surge. I follow Jack’s lead when he needs a plan. I watch Sawyer’s back because even rogues deserve someone who knows the terrain. My heart belongs to the ghost of a woman who walked away from the man I became.