"Enough with the 'family' talk!" Demir’s voice wasn't just loud; it was heavy with the weight of three years of silence. "Enough with the threats! I am a man, not a machine you can just oil with lies. You want the shipment? You move the crates. You want the Sunday shift? You sit in the dust."
"I can't, Selim Bey," Demir said, his voice a low vibration. "My daughter has her recital. I promised." Yeter Lan Yeter
"Keep the chair," Demir said, his breath coming in sharp, clean bursts. "I’m going to go watch my daughter dance." "Enough with the 'family' talk
The office went dead silent. Even the distant roar of the looms seemed to falter. Selim’s eyes widened, the gold pen slipping from his fingers and rolling across the floor. You want the shipment
He walked out of the office, through the lint-filled air of the factory floor. His coworkers watched him, their eyes wide. Demir didn't look back. For the first time in years, the air outside the factory gates didn't smell like chemicals—it just smelled like the wind.
The tea in Demir’s glass had gone cold, a dark, bitter amber that matched his mood. For three years, he had worked twelve-hour shifts at the textile factory in Bursa, breathing in lint and the sharp scent of industrial dye. Every month, the rent climbed. Every week, the price of bread ticked upward.