HONOR, DIGNITY, AND PRIDE

HONOR, DIGNITY, AND PRIDE — PART 1 🪓 PROLOGUE: The Stench of Decay The soil never lied. In the pitch-black density of the night, I listened to the faint, visceral rustle of thousands of earthworms writhing between damp sacks of organic waste. The air was thick—a suffocating miasma of decay, ruin, and eventual rebirth. Yet, it did not turn my stomach. I knew that what the worms were decomposing in this subterranean facility was natural. They were merely fulfilling their biological mandate. What truly nauseated me was the stench emanating from the monolithic, glass-fronted citadel of Tekton Holding, looming just two kilometers away: a visceral odor of sewage, desperately masked by expensive French perfumes, bespoke tailoring, and practiced, hollow smiles. It was a modern pandemonium where individuals ascended by trampling upon the dignity of their peers—a sanctuary where arrogance and betrayal were currency. For seven agonizing years, I existed as a mere shadow on the lowest rung of that corporate monolith, confined to the raw material warehouses and the worm farm. Nobody ever looked me in the eye. Nobody cared what a laborer with calloused hands and garments reeking of soil actually thought. To them, I was a non-entity—a convenient stepping stone on their frantic scramble to the summit. General Manager Erman’s tyrannical tirades in his executive suite, Chief Executive İlkay’s sneering disdain whenever our paths crossed in the corridor, Gürkan transforming his human resources department into a predatory s****l hunting ground... I recorded it all. I etched every transgression into my mind, my soul, and into the dark, incriminating dossiers resting in my hands. Above us, they were preparing for an extravagant gala at a luxurious Bosphorus mansion—a sacred occasion on October 29th, Republic Day, which they fully intended to exploit for their own vanity. Elegant gowns, diamond-encrusted timepieces, and crystal flutes of champagne... They were blissfully oblivious. Tonight, that mansion would not be sanctified by the honor of the Republic, but rather dismantled by their own disgrace. I had no intention of killing them; death would be far too merciful a dispensation for their sins. Instead, I was going to force them to remember the very thing they had systematically stripped from me and my kind for seven years: Honor. I looked down at the black files in my hands. As the raw crimson light from the fireplace illuminated my features, I whispered into the dark: "The game begins. Let us see if your arrogance can sustain you when your breath is cut short." CHAPTER 1: A Shaved Shadow (Part 1) Every time the volatile waves of the Bosphorus crashed against the stone dock of the century-old waterfront mansion, a sharp brine of seaweed and salt filled the air. Yet, this natural aroma was instantly smothered by a heavy cloud of expensive French perfumes, rich tobacco, and freshly seared prawns wafting through the open terrace doors. Outside, a restless sea raged; inside dwelled a hypocritical aristocracy that the sea was dying to swallow. It was the night of October 29th. The night sky painted itself in vibrant crimson, emerald, and gold as fireworks erupted in honor of Republic Day. Every explosion sent fleeting glimmers across the dark waters of the Bosphorus, fracturing against the mansion’s massive bulletproof glass facade and bleeding into the grand hall. The senior executives of Tekton Holding had chosen this sacred milestone as a mere backdrop to polish their own vanity. And I stood at the very center of that stage. Yet, nobody saw me. The black tuxedo I wore was Italian-cut. Its refined fabric sent an icy chill through my body the moment it touched my skin. After a lifetime spent in tattered overalls stained with worm compost, the absolute softness of this cloth felt foreign—almost sickening. I had shaved my beard completely. Looking into the mirror, I could barely recognize my own reflection. The dim shadow that had hidden beneath the earth for seven years was gone; in his place stood a stranger whose eyes burned with the raw fire of vengeance. I was a shaved shadow. I drifted among them, yet to their eyes, I was indistinguishable from a waiter carrying champagne flutes or a silent sentinel at the door. Invisibility was my greatest weapon. Inside the hall, the deafening hum of voices and the rhythmic clinking of crystal glasses felt like a calculated form of torture. I observed their eyes. No one looked another squarely in the face with honesty. Everyone’s gaze drifted over the shoulder of their conversation partner, greedily calculating who in the room was wealthier, more powerful, or ripe for exploitation. Their eyes were ravenous—impatient, like carnivorous larvae swarming a food source at the worm farm. "Berlin outdid herself again," whispered two women behind me, their voices blending with the rustle of their expensive silk gowns. "The organization is flawless. She’s been working on this event for months just to secure her place in İlkay’s good graces." I smiled inwardly. Yes, I thought. She built a flawless graveyard. I checked my watch: 21:40. It was time for the first phase of the execution. Leaving the main hall, I walked toward the dim elevator foyer at the back—an area strictly restricted to guests. Here, the olfactory landscape shifted. The heavy perfumes gave way to the dampness of aged wood and the chemical sharpness of varnish. My footsteps were swallowed whole by the thick, hand-woven rug on the floor. I stopped before the mirrored brass doors of the elevator. Right then, agitation stirred from the shadows at the end of the corridor. The footsteps were erratic, the breathing rapid and shallow. I recognized the scent of fear; when worms realized they were dying, they would surface, excreting a sour liquid. The approaching man smelled of the exact same thing: terror and sweat. It was Can—one of the lowest-level accountants at the holding company. A kid just like I used to be, trampled and spat on by Erman every morning in his office. With trembling hands, he pulled a thick yellow envelope from his inner jacket pocket. He was breathing so heavily that the bowtie on his tuxedo rose and fell frantically. I immediately recognized the woman standing across from him: Elina, the wife of the head accountant. "Is everything here?" Elina whispered. Her voice trembled, her eyes constantly scanning the corridor entrance. "Everything," Can replied, his voice raspy, as if a noose were cinched around his throat. "A complete forensic breakdown of all the money Erman embezzled through fake invoices and shell companies over the last seven years... If you get this to İlkay, it will destroy Erman instantly." Elina snatched the envelope from Can’s trembling fingers. The sharp sound of paper tearing echoed in the quiet corridor, sending a surge of ambition and vengeance into her eyes. Her husband was the chief accountant, yet Erman held all the power, maneuvering her husband like a mere pawn. Now, it was their turn for revenge. Or so they thought. What they didn't know was that I was the mastermind who had leaked those exact files into Can’s computer a week ago. Can was merely a small piece of bait on my hook—a perfect catalyst to mobilize the other vultures eager to put a noose around Erman's neck. When Elina concealed the envelope in her purse and stepped swiftly into the elevator, Can was left alone in the hallway. He leaned heavily against the wall, placing his hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath. A single drop of sweat dripped from his forehead, landing with a soft tap onto the polished parquet floor. When he raised his head, he saw me standing in the dim light of the corridor. Our eyes met. He didn't recognize me. My shaved face and tailored tuxedo failed to align with his mental image of "meek, manure-scented Kürşad." He merely felt an alien sense of imminent danger. My gaze unsettled him so deeply that he hastily buttoned his jacket and fled back toward the main hall—back into the safe embrace of the crowd. I was alone again. I inserted the radio earpiece into my ear. A faint static filled my ear, transmitted from the subterranean dark shelter beneath the worm farm. The heart of the system was operational. "Target 1," I whispered, my voice hanging in the damp air of the corridor. "General Manager Erman. He’s standing at the peak of his tower of pride, looking down on everyone with a glass in hand. Bring his tower crashing down at 22:00." A mechanical, affirmative click sounded through the earpiece. I closed my eyes and drew in the familiar, slightly decayed scent of damp earth wafting from the old service tunnels beneath the mansion. That scent reminded me of exactly who I was. I was the executioner of this night. And the court was about to convene.