day
1577 Words
A new morning. Istanbul.
The morning sun filtered through the open window like honey, golden, soft, and warm. The distant sounds of seagulls echoed across the rooftops and the chirping of birds, mingling with the gentle lapping of the waves on the shore. The atmosphere was soothing. And calming.
Arslan slowly opened his eyes.
For a few seconds, there was silence—the whisper of the wind rustling the curtains, and the warmth of the sunlight dancing on his face. His body ached, as always, but the pain had eased.
He sat up, rubbed his face with his hand, and then looked at the small cat curled into a tiny ball at the foot of his bed. It blinked at him, meowed softly, and then extended its tiny paws.
"Good morning," he whispered in a low voice, hoarse from sleep.
He stood up without haste. He made his bed with neat and tidy folds, brushed his teeth, and stepped into the cool stream of the shower.
The cold water cascaded over his tired muscles. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, hearing nothing but the sound of water and his steady breathing.
Then he stood in front of the mirror, the drops of water still clinging to his skin. His sharp green eyes stared into his face, and he saw a man fighting for life, for his dream. No matter the circumstances, he still wanted to achieve that dream he'd always dreamed of. He wanted his freedom.
He was wearing his uniform: black trousers, a crisp white shirt, and a tight black jacket with silver buttons, the sleeves neatly rolled up to the elbow. His collar was stiff, his posture straight, his shoulders back, and a serious look on his face. When he looked at himself,
he saw a man with a purpose.
He left the apartment carrying a light bag over his shoulder and earphones, walking through the narrow streets of Istanbul to the beach. The sea glittered on the horizon, a vast blue and silver canvas stretching endlessly. It was beautiful.
By the time he arrived at the restaurant, the world had awakened.
"Star"—the name was engraved in clean steel letters on the glass door. The building stood proudly on the waterfront, its white stones entirely covered with wide windows. Inside, the aroma of freshly baked bread, citrus, and salt pervaded everything.
The restaurant was warm and modern—piano music played in the background, white tablecloths were draped over each table, and glass vases were filled with pale blue flowers. Sunlight filtered through the windows, catching the gleam of polished glasses and silver cutlery.
Arslan strolled around—elegant, calm, and almost silent. The other waiters greeted him with nods, some with quiet admiration.
To the wealthy clientele who dined there—politicians, artists, and foreign businessmen—Arslan was a living enigma.
He had the poise of a man who should be in a fashion magazine… and the eyes of someone who had seen too much.
Every step he took was deliberate. Every plate he holds, steady. Every smile he smiles, gentle—not forced, but distant, as if his mind is always living beyond the sea's edge.
Hours passed.
The restaurant was filled with laughter and quiet conversation, and the faint whisper of a pianist playing a soothing melody near the large windows. The sea outside shimmered under the pale moonlight, and the lights of Istanbul glittered on the water like scattered stars.
Arslan moved across the floor like a black and white shadow—his sleeves neatly rolled up, his silver tray perfectly balanced in his hand. Each of his movements was smooth and calm. He adjusted a napkin for a nervous young man approaching to speak to the father of the girl he wanted to marry, and placed a plate of sea bass before an elderly French ambassador without a word.
His presence was subtle. He spoke little—only when necessary. Yet, all eyes followed him.
By 11:48 p.m., the crowd had ended.
He stood in the kitchen polishing empty glasses, his sleeves damp with condensation. His green eyes peered out the window toward the moonlit sea, catching his breath. Peace—rare, fleeting—but still present in these last minutes of the day.
Then the door opened.
A tall man entered alone. Unreserved. Unsmiling. Unwary. Unwarranted.
He wore a tailored charcoal gray suit that didn't hide his muscles. His hair was slicked back, and he carried a heavy coat folded over his arm, despite the mild weather. A black ring gleamed on his right hand—a snake swallowing its tail.
Arslan's grip on the glass loosened.
The man looked around unhurriedly, then met his eyes. He smiled.
Not gently.
He walked slowly to the counter, placed his gloves on the marble surface, and bowed—close enough that only Arslan could hear.
"You're a wonderful waiter, Arslan Duman."
The words were quiet, but heavy as lead. Arslan didn't hesitate. He gently placed the polished glass.
"Not here."
"Why not? It's quiet. Beautiful. A perfect place to end a life, right?"
Arslan's jaw tightened. His voice was sharp.
"What do you want?"
The man tilted his head, amused.
"My boss wanted to give you one last chance. We made offers. You refused. That's bold. But there's a fine line between boldness and suicide."
He pulled a small envelope from his coat and placed it next to a glass of juice.
"Inside is the name of someone you care about. We know where you live. Where you work. You're not the only one with secrets."
Arslan placed his fingers over the envelope but didn't touch it. His voice, when he reached it, was low and cold.
"You'll come back here again... You won't leave." The man smiled even wider.
"We were hoping you'd say so."
He adjusted his coat, put on his gloves, and turned around without another word—leaving as if he had just paid for a delicious meal.
Arslan stood still for a long moment, the envelope unopened.
His reflection in the glass stared back at him.
Sharp eyes.
A steely spine.
But behind them, a storm was brewing.
He didn't want war.
But war...
wanted him.
Later that night. The narrow streets of Istanbul.
The city was deep in sleep under a blanket of fog, and the streets glowed with a faint haze of street lamps. Arslan walked alone, his coat pulled tight, the envelope still sealed in his pocket. His shoes clacked softly against the stone pavement as he made his way toward a quieter neighborhood, away from the busy seaside restaurants and the whispers of the mafia.
He could have gone home.
But no—tonight, his chest felt tight, his thoughts noisy.
He needed to see her.
His sister's apartment.
It was a small building on a quiet street, with a blue-painted door and half-withered flowerpots on the steps. He knew the way by heart. He walked quietly up the stairs and stopped at the familiar door—faded green, slightly cracked at the edges, and bearing a faded brass number.
He knocked gently.
Inside, there was a light movement, then silence, then the click of a latch.
The door opened slightly—then widened further when she saw him.
"Arslan?"
His sister, Yasmina, was standing there, wearing a loose sweater and sweatpants, her long black hair tied back in a loose braid. She was older than him, perhaps twenty-nine or thirty, and her black eyes were wide with surprise and warmth.
"You didn't tell me you were coming!"
He smiled slightly.
"I didn't want to wake you. I couldn't sleep."
She immediately stepped aside and waved him in.
The apartment was small but warm—dimmed yellow light, shelves lined with books and small plants, and the faint scent of mint tea in the air. A cat (older, fatter, and more pampered than his) lounged on the couch, looking at him lazily.
Yasmina put down the cup she was holding and hugged him tightly.
"You look tired," she whispered into his shoulder.
"You always say that," he answered quietly.
They sat together on the worn sofa, her legs tucked under her, Arslan leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. She brought him a cup of tea without asking, watching him intently.
"Are you sure you're okay?"
He sipped his tea, his eyes lowered.
"Long day."
She whispered quietly, studying him as only a sister could—seeing the tiny cracks behind the calm, how his shoulders were a little tense, his jaw a little tight.
But she didn't press him.
They didn't talk about anything—her college classes, the cat's new habit of knocking plants off the windowsill. For a moment, the heaviness in his chest eased.
Here, in this quiet place, under this small roof, he wasn't a fighter or a target.
He was just Arslan.
Her brother.
As midnight approached, he stood quietly.
"I have to go," he whispered, placing the empty cup in the sink.
She gently took his arm by the door.
"Promise me you'll take care of yourself?"
He smiled slightly, resting his hand on her head for a moment.
"Always."
And with that, he slipped back into the darkness—the dim glow of streetlights waiting outside, a cool breeze caressing his face.
His pockets were heavy with more than just an envelope.
They were heavy with options.
- Writer
