HONOR, DIGNITY, AND PRIDE

Honur Dignty and Pride 3

CHARACTER FILE 2: Intoxicated by Power — GENERAL MANAGER ERMAN BEY

On the mansion’s expansive seaside terrace, the wind whipped the salty spray of the Bosphorus against the guests' faces. Yet, even this cool breeze failed to dissipate the stifling cloud of flattery surrounding Erman Bey.

Erman was the General Manager of Tekton Holding. In his late forties, with graying temples, every movement he made projected the image of a man claiming, "I own everything here." His tuxedo was custom-tailored, but even the silk pocket square couldn't hide his deep-seated inferiority complex. His eyes, looking down at the crowd, were perpetually narrowed—always searching for a flaw, a victim. The arrogant, lopsided smirk etched into the corner of his lips was his signature expression.

"Erman Bey," a young female intern whispered, her hand trembling slightly as she extended a glass to him. Her eyes held pure fear alongside a desperate desire to please. "Regarding the latest budget report you prepared... the finance department was mesmerized. It is truly an honor to work with you."

Erman didn't even turn his head. Keeping his gaze fixed on the dark waters of the Bosphorus, he took a sip from his glass. A guttural, condescending sound echoed from his throat. He then slowly turned his head toward the girl, his eyes scanning her as if she were an insect.

"An honor?" Erman said, raising his voice so others nearby could hear. "My dear girl, working with me is not an honor; it is a privilege. If I had caught a single misplaced comma in that report, you wouldn't be sipping champagne in this mansion right now—you’d be having your bag searched by security at the holding’s front gate. Thank your lucky stars I'm in a good mood."

The blood drained from the girl’s face. Her lips trembled, and her eyes filled with tears, but she knew that crying in front of Erman meant the end of her career. With a forced smile, she bowed her head. "You are right, Erman Bey. I am grateful for your attention," she murmured, backing away into the safety of the crowd.

Erman’s ruthless demeanor was applauded by the surrounding managers as a masterclass in leadership. That was precisely who Erman was: a psychological parasite feeding on the dignity, joy, and self-worth of others.

Passing through the corridor, Manager Gürkan witnessed this display of dominance and quickly picked up his pace. Hastily buttoning his jacket, he plastered the most subservient grin onto his face.

"Erman Bey, you are in top form tonight," Gürkan said, stooping his shoulders slightly. "I honestly don't know how you maintain such flawless discipline in the company. Even the workers in the basement warehouse button their shirts in respect just hearing your name."

"The ones down there?" Erman’s eyes narrowed with sudden rage, his nostrils flaring. Perhaps he was remembering Kürşad, whom he had tormented and humiliated in his office for seven long years. "If you treat those manure-scented porters like human beings, they’ll walk all over you, Gürkan. That foul stench is burnt into their lungs. We sell vision here, while they merely carry our waste. A worker must know his place. And if he doesn't, I'll step on his neck until he learns."

As he spoke, he pressed his right thumb firmly into the palm of his left hand—a refined version of his habit of slamming his fist on the desk when berating someone. The pleasure he derived from crushing others was written clearly in his dilated pupils.

To the employees, Erman Bey was less an executive and more a ticking time bomb. Every staff member who entered his office felt cold sweat on their palms as they turned the doorknob. The sentences he uttered while leaning back behind his desk, pressing his fingertips together, haunted their dreams:

"Who are you to stand before me and offer an opinion? You are a slave to this company."

Now, he stood at the absolute summit of his tower of pride. Having just received that inviting, filthy glance from Berlin, his ego was thoroughly stroked. He straightened his neck and adjusted the lapels of his tuxedo.

He didn't know.

In just a few minutes, a velvet-covered, steel-mechanized Ascension Device would clamp onto that stiff neck. The man who rose by choking the breath out of others was about to beg for air, crushed beneath the weight of his own arrogance inside a dark gas chamber.

CHARACTER FILE 3: The Career Hunter — MANAGER GÜRKAN BEY

Leaving Erman Bey’s side, Manager Gürkan prowled through the hall like a hyena on a hunt. In his late thirties, he was responsible for human resources and operational processes at Tekton Holding.

To an outsider, with his slicked-back hair, clean-shaven face, and toothy smile, he projected the image of a polished corporate professional. However, his true expertise lay in stalking vulnerable prey in the holding’s corridors, transforming his corporate authority into a tool for s****l exploitation.

He sauntered toward the mansion’s dimly lit bar. His eyes were locked on Petek, the young and ambitious model who was the new face of the holding’s advertising campaign, sitting alone and sipping her drink. Gürkan smoothed his jacket with one hand, licked his lips, and slid onto the stool beside her. His scent was heavy—a cheap, aggressive masculine fragrance blending sharp tobacco and ginger.

"Petek Hanım," he murmured, leaning toward her and dropping his voice to a hushed tone. "Is the most stunning woman of the night sitting here all alone? That is an absolute tragedy."

Petek instinctively recoiled from Gürkan’s sudden proximity. Shrugging her shoulder slightly, she rolled her eyes. "Gürkan Bey, thank you. I’m just taking a moment to unwind," she said, nervously spinning her glass between her fingers, creating a subtle clinking sound.

Gürkan remained utterly unbothered by her cold demeanor. If anything, watching his prey try to pull away triggered his predatory instincts. Narrowing his eyes, he leaned in closer, placing his right hand on the back of Petek's bar stool, trapping her between his physical frame and the bar counter. His expression shifted instantly; the friendly manager mask vanished, replaced by a sinister bully.

"Unwinding is fine, of course," Gürkan said, an icy edge of blackmail entering his voice. "But as you know, the holding’s entire advertising budget and agency contracts for the coming year will be signed on my desk Monday morning. When making certain decisions, I look less at the figures in the ledger... and more at the loyalty and 'compliance' of the team. If you catch my drift."

Petek’s fingers froze on her glass. Her gaze faltered. She understood the dirty deal hidden behind his overtures all too well. If she refused to go up to Gürkan’s room in the mansion tonight, her contract would be terminated on Monday morning. Seeing her helplessness, Gürkan smiled triumphantly. He reached out his left hand, touching Petek’s bare shoulder, his fingers tracing her skin shamelessly.

"You have time to think about it, gorgeous," he whispered into her ear, his breath reeking of alcohol. "The night is young. You know where to find me."

My stomach turned. Standing directly behind the bar holding a service tray, I, Kürşad, clenched my teeth so hard I felt my jawbone creak with a sharp snap.

For seven years, Gürkan had subjected every young woman and intern who entered the company to this exact nightmare. He used his power and title to summon women to his office, threatening their careers to rob them of their dignity. He made life a living hell for anyone who resisted, forcing them to resign.

As Kürşad, I had documented every single one of these atrocities from the ventilation grates of his office, recording their tears and logging them into my ledger.

As Gürkan stood up from the stool, smirking as he strolled away to fawn over other influential figures in the room, he left Petek behind. A single tear slipped from her eye, landing with a soft tap on the bar counter. She felt, to her very core, how her dignity had been trampled for the sake of a corporate title.

Gürkan didn't know.

The man who used his position to corner women would soon find himself trapped inside one of the dark, sludge-filled industrial tanks at the Worm Farm. The mechanism Kürşad had built for him would strip away his title and authority entirely; submerged in the mud at the bottom of that tank, he would be forced to scream the most humiliating confessions into the holding’s loudspeakers just to stay alive.

Gürkan’s s****l hunting ground was not confined to Petek; he was a virus that had infected every floor, every cell of the corporate plaza. He wielded his position like a weapon, leaving no blind spot untouched.

As Kürşad, wandering the darkest corners of the building with my mop, cleaning overalls, or raw material sacks over seven long years, I caught the stench of his filth everywhere:

• Dark Corners of the Parking Garage: Behind luxury SUVs, amid the heavy smell of motor oil and exhaust fumes, rustling sounds echoed... Ambitious female employees rubbing up against Gürkan, wrapping themselves around his neck just to secure that promotion. The artificial lust in their eyes, matched by Gürkan’s raw, guttural laughter as he declared, "I'm the one putting you in that seat."

• Plaza Restrooms and Workshops: This was the most painful—minimum-wage factory workers or young interns forced into corners through threats. Sobs echoing off cold white tiles, accompanied by Gürkan’s vile breath whispering, "If you speak a word of this, you’ll be fired tomorrow without severance. What will you tell your family?" The sheer terror and sour sweat of those helpless girls...

• Secluded Spots in the Warehouse: In the dimly lit archive rooms directly above my workspace, women unbuttoning his jacket purely to curry favor and flatter his ego...

Gürkan had turned the holding into his personal pleasure palace. He knew everyone’s vulnerabilities, everyone’s desperate need for money, and struck directly at their dignity.

What he failed to realize was that Kürşad, tucked inside those cleaning overalls, had used tiny recording devices hidden in the ventilation shafts of those parking garages and restrooms to archive every single second of his depravity.

Those recordings would soon be broadcast to the entire city through the loudspeakers of the acidic tank in which he was destined to drown.