HONOR, DIGNITY, AND PRIDE

Honur Dignty and Pride 2

CHAPTER 1: A Shaved Shadow (Part 2)

Leaving the mold-scented silence of the elevator foyer, I re-entered the harsh, brilliant flood of light in the main hall. The deafening roar of voices hit my face like a furnace stoked by false laughter. This was no place of celebration; it was a sinister festival wrapped in silk and diamonds, where everyone concealed a metaphorical dagger meant for their neighbor's back.

I scanned the crowd. After seven years at the worm farm, my sense of smell had grown as sharp as a hound's. The air didn't just carry expensive perfumes; a sour stench of greed, lust, and sycophancy rose all the way to the vaulted ceiling.

In a distant corner stood General Manager Erman, holding his crystal champagne flute high as if he owned the world. He was encircled by flatters who hung on his every word, desperate to climb the corporate ladder.

"Erman Bey, without your visionary leadership over the last quarter, Tekton Holding could never have reached this scale," Manager Gürkan gushed. The exaggerated tone of admiration in his voice grated on my nerves. His spine bent so drastically as he bowed that it pushed the very limits of human spinelessness. "Working under you is practically an academic education for us."

Erman puffed his chest with pride, savoring every drop of flattery.

"Gürkan, vision isn't something everyone possesses," Erman said, deepening his tone so the surrounding women could hear. "I gave my soul to this company. Though, as long as I have loyal... dogs like you behind me, we will never fall."

Gürkan grinned, taking the insult of being called a "dog" as a grand compliment. His teeth glistened repulsively under the chandeliers. "Whatever you command, Erman Bey. We are always right behind you."

Erman’s eyes then drifted past his army of flatterers to the far side of the room, locking onto Berlin. She wore a backless red velvet dress, reveling in the flawless execution of the event. Erman raised his glass slightly toward her, his gaze scanning her body like a vulture. He winked—a foul display of flirtation born from the grotesque confidence of absolute power.

Berlin responded to his brazen, filthy look with a subtle lowering of her eyelids. She threw her shoulders back and strutted toward him, taking deliberate steps to accentuate the high slit of her gown. In this room, everyone was a commodity on display, and Berlin had no qualms about putting her dignity in the shop window for Erman, the highest bidder.

As she passed him, her hip brushed lightly against Erman’s arm. Leaning in close, she murmured in a breathy whisper:

"At the end of the night... we’ll discuss the future of the holding in your room, won't we, Erman Bey?"

A guttural, lustful chuckle escaped Erman’s throat. "My door is always open to you, Berlin. You know I love rewarding loyalty."

The hypocrisy in the room did not stop there. A short distance away, the true owner of the holding, İlkay Bey, was greeting guests alongside his wife, Sevgül Hanım. To an outsider, they appeared to be the nation's model couple. İlkay’s hand rested comfortably on Sevgül’s waist, and Sevgül looked up at her husband with adoring eyes. But as I drew closer, I caught the icy venom in their hushed whispers, hidden from the rest of the room.

My stomach churned. I swallowed down the pure acid rising in my throat. Even the dead rats in the worm farm smelled cleaner than the souls of these people. Those who dug graves behind each other's backs, those who lusted after another's bed, those who worshipped power and dragged their honor through the dirt... They were all gathered in this mansion. And every single one of them invoked the sacred name of the Republic to sanitize their own filth.

I checked my watch: 21:55.

As I walked past the mansion’s massive smart system panel, I blind-plugged a tiny transmitter into a USB port underneath the console. The device vibrated faintly with a single beep.

As Kürşad, I had spent seven years watching these people’s every lie, every wag of their tails, and every disgusting behind-closed-doors transaction. Now, the time had come for them to pay for all that flattery and sycophancy.

I fixed my eyes on Erman. Having finished his champagne, he was signaling a waiter for another glass. At that exact moment, the phone in his pocket vibrated. As the screen lit up his face, I saw greedy fear creep out from behind his mask of arrogance.

“Your career is in danger. Come to the library in the back garden immediately.”

Erman dismissed the flattering words of his surrounding sycophants with a wave of his hand. "Excuse me for a moment, gentlemen," he said. Casting a covert glance at Berlin, he turned and began walking down the dim corridor—toward the grandest and final mistake of his life.

I watched him walk away. The shaved shadow on my face dissolved completely into the darkness.

CHARACTER FILE 1: The Executioner Beneath the Earth — KÜRŞAD

Some people are brought into this world believing they exist solely to be crushed, to polish the signs of others, and to clean up the mess left in their wake. The system forces this belief upon them. For seven years, I was the lowest gear in that very system.

My name is Kürşad. I am thirty-two years old. I was employee number 084 at Tekton Holding, working three levels beneath the luxurious plaza in the industrial raw material warehouse and worm farm—a place thousands of people never bothered to glance at.

If young corporate employees saw me on the street, they wouldn't recognize me. For seven years, I was like a living corpse encased in frayed, grey overalls stained with worm manure and damp soil. My hands were calloused from handling chemicals, acidic soil, and heavy sacks; the ridges on my fingertips felt sanded down to nothing. My face was pale as chalk from the harsh white glare of underground fluorescent lights. My hair and beard were matted, and dark bags hung under my eyes from chronic sleep deprivation and dampness.

When the plaza’s polished managers descended from the elevators to walk to the parking lot, they would pass right by me. I never forgot the heavy scent of their expensive perfumes. I watched them every day as they wrinkled their noses in disgust, hurriedly pulling the hems of their silk jackets away to avoid touching the bags of fertilizer, treating me not as a human being, but as an iron support beam holding up the warehouse.

To them, I was just "Kürşad." A man without a surname, waiting silently in line on payday, bowing his head when scolded. An insignificant worker.

But there was something they didn't know: Soil sharpens a man's patience.

In that dark warehouse, I didn't just haul sacks. I managed the core operational architecture of the Worm Farm. I understood the biology of millions of worms raised to boost soil fertility better than anyone—how organic waste decomposed, what neutralized odors, and what could dissolve flesh within seconds. I knew the exact humidity required for a worm to survive, just as I knew how long a man suffocating on his own arrogance could last.

For seven years, using a small computer in that warehouse, listening to sounds echoing through the ventilation shafts, and collecting discarded papers from managers' trash cans, I amassed a fortune. Not of money, but of information.

Now, I have taken off those overalls. On the night of October 29th, as I stood before the mirror and the cold steel of the razor sheared away seven years of exhausted stubble, I felt pure determination.

The man in the mirror was no longer meek Kürşad. With closely cropped hair, sharp facial contours, and a tailored black Italian tuxedo, he was an executioner standing with more dignity than any corporate tycoon. My hands were still calloused. Adjusting the silk cuffs of my tuxedo, the roughness of those calluses reminded me of my vow.

My hands were cleaner than the filthy souls of those managers sitting behind corporate desks.

I am not here to murder them. I am here to hold up the mirror they so rightfully deserve. I will force them to watch a worker from beneath the earth dismantle the glass castles they built in the sky.

I am Kürşad. And in my courtroom, no one is innocent.