Next Station

Chapter 6

Honestly...

The road?

It's the only medicine that works.

I step onto the highway—

And suddenly,

The ache in my chest...

Doesn't hurt as much.

Sadness?

It falls behind,

Like raindrops slipping off the side mirror.

Wind in my hair,

Music in my ears,

And the hum of tires on wet asphalt—

That's when my mind clears.

That's when I breathe.

Honestly...

If no one had ever built the road,

If cars hadn't come into our lives—

How would we have run?

From the weight of it all?

If music didn't exist,

If rain didn't kiss the windshield,

If the streets weren't there

To carry the tired parts of us away...

What would be left of us?

Just ghosts made of pain.

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

Kaan stood in his office, his gaze tired but focused, locked on the tunnel route map spread before him. Outside, rain tapped gently against the windowpanes, and the air carried the earthy scent of wet soil. His coffee sat on the edge of the desk—half-drunk and cold.

The door opened. Hakan, his lawyer and legal advisor, stepped in and, without preamble, said,

"I checked... The eastern lands of the project haven't been purchased yet. The owner is willing to sell, but you have to decide fast. "If we want to create a bypass or reinforce the soil, that land needs to be included in the project zone."

Kaan, eyes narrowing at the map, murmured,

"So we have to buy it. Without that land, there's no way to stabilize the soil or create a temporary detour."

Hakan spoke with a serious tone,

"Exactly. But the current budget won't cover it. You'll need a new investor or renegotiate with the bank."

Kaan leaned on the edge of the desk, his thoughts already a step ahead of the map's printed lines. The sound of rain behind the glass pulsed steadily—like a rhythm that sharpened his focus.

Hakan didn't wait for a response. He stepped closer, his voice lowered.

"If you want to bring in a private investor, you have to move fast. But you know the risk."

Kaan simply said,

"I don't want this project to become someone's leverage."

Just then, the door swung open, and a young engineer entered, soaked in the rain, breathless, with panic in his eyes.

"Engineer Kaan... The eastern wall settled overnight. The soil is still slipping. If we don't act by tomorrow, the ceiling might collapse."

Hakan opened his mouth to speak, but Kaan cut in first. He moved toward the coat rack, grabbed his black waterproof jacket, picked up his walkie-talkie, and said,

"All field engineers need to be on-site within thirty minutes. No delays."

He turned toward the door.

"Hakan, come too. We'll settle the land issue right there."

Hakan replied,

"I'll grab the files and catch up with you."

As they exited the room, Kaan glanced briefly at the cloudy sky. Under his breath, he muttered,

"It's not just the ground that slips... sometimes things inside people do too. You've got to anchor them before they cave in."

The rain picked up. But Kaan, unfazed by the cold drops, descended the stairs with steady steps—a man who never left a crisis without a plan.

Rain continued to fall softly and steadily. Emergency floodlights illuminated the eastern wall of the tunnel, where workers' breath rose like smoke in the yellow light. The soil was still slipping, and the hum of drilling machines echoed in the background.​

Kaan, his boots caked in mud, stepped forward. Engineers huddled around a map board, discussing temporary stabilization solutions, but his attention drifted. Someone—or rather, something—stood outside the engineering frame of this project.​

Across the work zone, a man in a camel wool coat, holding an open umbrella and wearing spotless shoes, stood indifferent to the mud and rain. Two other men stood slightly behind him.​

Hakan approached quietly and said,​

"That man... that's Rashid."​

Kaan's gaze sharpened. His usual frown now carried an added layer of security awareness. He calmly walked toward the visitor.​

Rashid smiled serenely.​

"What a beautiful night to build the future, isn't it? Mud, rain, mountains waiting to be tunneled through..."​

Kaan stopped, offering no greeting.​

"This area is restricted to project personnel."​

Unfazed, Rashid replied,​

"I've come to make myself relevant. Representing a private investor. I heard your budget is on its last breath."​

Hakan, now closer, asked,​

"How did you learn about this?"​

Rashid shrugged.​

"When news matters, it finds its way."​

Kaan remained silent for a few seconds, then said coldly and deliberately,​

"If you're here just to offer help, you know the way back. We're not seeking funds with hidden strings."​

Rashid stepped closer, his voice calm but weighty:​

"Strings aren't always hidden. Sometimes they're just complex... and some people know how to untangle them without breaking anything."​

Kaan paused. At that moment, his trained mind began piecing things together—Rashid's face, his background, the people behind the scenes, the precise timing of his arrival, his sudden offer.​

He finally said,​

"This project will follow its own path. Any assistance must be transparent."​

Rashid offered a half-smile.​

"Transparency? Kaan, you know no tunnel is built transparently."​

He paused, then raised his umbrella slightly and said:​

"You know, Kaan... I've spent years thinking about paths. About where they truly lead. This tunnel... it could be just an engineering route, or it could reach places I desire."​

Kaan met his gaze without hesitation.​

"I build paths for the people, not for hidden agendas."​

Rashid maintained his smile, but something flickered in his eyes.​

"Sometimes, people go where agendas guide them. They just realize it later."​

Then, with the same composure, he turned and left. His shoes left no trace in the mud because he never truly stepped onto the field. But Kaan stood there, his mind occupied, yet his decision clear.​

He murmured to himself:​

"Then, before he takes the path, I must block it."

Night — Nader's Old House, Study Room

The soft glow of a desk lamp was the only light in the room. The ticking of an antique clock blended with the heavy silence like a slow, deliberate heartbeat. Nader, in a gray cotton robe, held a cup of tea as he sat in front of an unfinished chessboard. Kaan stood nearby, soaked by rain and mud, refusing to sit.

Nader glanced at the board, then spoke quietly.

"So... Rashid came to the site, didn't he?"

Kaan simply nodded.

Nader placed the tea down, rose from his chair, and walked to an old bookshelf. He opened a small drawer and pulled out a folder—worn, thick, and sealed in silence. Without turning, he extended it toward Kaan.

"This file is from five years ago. Rashid... he's trying the same play again. But this time, the ground he's standing on belongs to us."

Kaan took the folder and scanned the contents—photos, unofficial contracts, intelligence reports. His eyes moved quickly, but his mind moved faster.

"So... he's using the same route."

Nader's voice is steady and sharp:

"More precise than that. That tunnel? It's not just a path to him. It's a corridor—for trafficking without money trails, but with human ones."

He paused, then added with a bitter edge:

"This time, he's just wearing a business suit."

Kaan narrowed his eyes, his voice now calm and resolved—a mind already at work.

"Then we seal that tunnel before it ever opens. But it makes it look like he changed direction all on his own."

Nader smiled. That same weathered smile of a man who'd spent a lifetime navigating shadows.

"That's exactly what Rashid doesn't understand. The game ends... when the loser still thinks he's winning."

Nishantashi, Winter Rain

Night had fallen. Winter rain fell softly, steadily. Kaan, dressed in a long gray coat and holding a closed umbrella, stepped into the inner courtyard of an old restaurant tucked in the Nishantashi district.

The scent of Turkish coffee and wet wood lingered in the crisp winter air.

Dim yellow lights cast long shadows across the cobbled stones.

Rashid, with neatly trimmed facial hair, a black tie, and sharp eyes, sat at a table in the corner of the courtyard. A half-finished cup of coffee sat in front of him.

As soon as he saw Kaan, he offered a faint smile.

"You still schedule your most important meetings in the rain, Engineer Kaan?"

Kaan sat down. He set the umbrella aside—soaked, but composed.

"Some conversations don't land right in dry places."

"You know, Kaan, I'm not a sentimental man. But Istanbul... this city, when someone wants to carve a path through a mountain, I want that path built."

Kaan locked eyes with him.

"As long as your name doesn't show up on any contracts."

Rashid smiled again, but it wasn't a warm one.

"I only trust the kind of men who move things forward. Not the ones constantly stuck with excuses. Now... a private investor might step in on my behalf. Someone nobody would trace. But you'll need to give guarantees."

"What kind of guarantees?"

"That this road won't just be a road. It'll be a route—one that leads to the places I want it to."

Kaan went silent for a moment. Something between reluctance and disdain flickered in his eyes.

"I've never been one for backroom deals."

Rashid spoke softly.

"We all are, Kaan. Some of us just realize it later."

The rain grew louder. The coffee cups were still warm—but the words between them had grown cold.

Kaan reached for his untouched coffee in a slow, deliberate motion.

A wisp of steam curled from the surface. His eyes drifted from Rashid's face to the dark liquid, then back again.

"But some roads, if they only lead to a fall... building them is treason."

And with that, he set the cup down without drinking.

He stood, turned without a word, and walked off into the rain.

Rashid remained alone—with a cooling coffee, an empty smile, and a mind that, for the first time in years, just might have wandered backward.

The following week, everything moved like clockwork—like gears were freshly oiled and perfectly aligned. Rashid seemed satisfied; his smile during meetings was broader, his voice softer, his confidence almost smug. The "trusted investor" had been introduced to the project. Contracts were signed. Funding had, on the surface, been secured with admirable transparency.

But just two days later, those same gears ground to a halt.

At dawn, agents from economic and national security units arrived with official warrants. They entered Rashid's home and office. Boxes of documents, computer cases, financial records were all seized. Cameras captured his stunned face, right at the moment he realized there was no way out this time.

Money trails, fake records, shell companies, and—perhaps most damning—his connections to individuals on the economic black list... Everything was now on the table.

And no one—not even Rashid himself—understood how the trap had closed so cleanly, so silently.

At that very hour, Kaan stood in his simple, half-lit office at the construction firm. Pale winter sunlight filtered through the window onto the edge of his desk. His laptop screen showed the breaking news: Rashid had been arrested. The report detailed everything, even aerial footage.

The tea on his desk had gone cold.

But Kaan's eyes weren't cold—or detached. They were warm with a quiet sense of peace. Not because Rashid had been taken down, but because the road that was meant to serve the people... would now remain clean. A path toward life, not shadows.

He didn't smile. Just drew a slow, steady breath. He picked up his phone, opened his call list and, without dialing anyone, placed it back on the desk.

From below, the whirring of machines carried upward. Work went on.

And no one—not Rashid's lawyers, not the media analysts, not even Rashid himself—knew that this entire operation had started in a small room, with an engineering blueprint.

With the mind of Engineer Kaan.

A man who understood that, sometimes, a covert agent's greatest weapon wasn't a gun or an order...

It was patience. And the ability to read time like a map.

A man who could turn silence into the loudest message—just when no one saw it coming.

Kaan picked up his phone, opened his contacts list, and then—without dialing anyone—his finger slowly drifted to the photo gallery.

A moment later, an image lit up the screen—one he had taken in secret, that night, at his own surprise birthday party at Janan's house.

It was Maral.

In her plain white dress, a loosely tied bow resting at the small of her back, her hair pinned up...

Kaan took the phone closer. The glow of the photo lit up his face. For a moment, his eyes softened.

This picture wasn't just a picture anymore. It had become a quiet kind of sedative. Like a single warm point of light in the middle of a long, gray, freezing day.

There was another image too—a screenshot from Maral's i********: page. In that one, she had her back to the camera, her hair tied back with a large black ribbon bow.

Kaan couldn't allow himself clearer photos than these. Not out of indifference, but through necessity. His professional code—and more importantly, his own understanding of operational security—wouldn't permit it.

It was dangerous. If his phone ever got hacked, or confiscated, or compromised in any way, it wouldn't just be his own identity at risk. The person in those photos would be in danger too.

And yet, every day, at least once—sometimes more—he looked at those two images.

Not to analyze. Not as part of any mission.

But because seeing them calmed his mind.

Maybe it was serotonin. Maybe DOPamine. Maybe one of those chemicals no neuroscientist had yet found the right name for—but Kaan knew it intimately.

It felt like surviving, to the bare minimum.

He knew full well that in this line of work, nothing was permanent—power, security, the future, even himself.

But some things—even if they aren't yours, even if you're not allowed to touch them—still glow like a tiny lantern in the night.

Just enough to help you make it through.

He locked the screen and set the phone silently beside his cold cup of tea.

And then he whispered to himself:

"Some paths... you can only keep walking, just by looking at someone. Even if they never know."

Nader's House

Nader's house was a three-story Ottoman-style building—tall wooden windows framed in white, walnut floors that creaked gently underfoot, and high ceilings with simple yet dignified moldings. The interior, decorated with handwoven rugs, aged paintings, and a library of leather-bound books, was a blend of authority and the memory of lived years.

In the sitting room, a wall-mounted gas heater glowed with a steady flame. The warm light from a side lamp cast soft shadows over teacups and a bandaged hand.

Nader, dressed in comfortable home clothes but with his usual air of dignity, sat on a leather armchair. A light blanket lay across his lap, and his right hand—still under treatment—rested on a small cushion. His face was calm, but his eyes remained sharp.

Kaan and Tarik sat across from him, quiet, with the kind of respect only long history brings.

Nader offered a faint smile, lifting his teacup slightly.

"If that sharp-eyed doctor hadn't stepped in, I'd probably still be brushing off that lump as just a bruise... until it was too late."

His smile faded, but his gaze landed on Kaan. He said nothing—just one of those pointed silences Nader was known for.

Tarik smiled.

"I'm glad you took it seriously, Hojam. You had surgery on your hand tumor, and it was removed. You look better already."

Just then, Tarik's phone rang. He stood with a brief nod.

"Call from the office. I'll take it outside."

As his footsteps faded down the hallway, Nader set his cup down on the side table, leaned back slightly into the chair, and looked at Kaan. His voice is now softer, steadier.

"Kaan... when you chose this path, you didn't just get a new ID. You left part of your life behind—like an old coat you don't wear anymore, but still remember."

He turned his eyes to the window, where the moonlight spilled cold and quiet onto the velvet curtains.

"Emotion. Doubt. Attachment. They're like wounds—hide them too long, and they'll infect them. This work doesn't allow halfway feelings. You either burn completely, or never light the flame at all."

Kaan said nothing. His breath deepened slightly.

Nader continued, quieter.

"That girl... Maral. She's strong. Maybe even stronger than she realizes. But she shakes something inside you. That's the most dangerous kind of shake, Kaan. Because it doesn't make a sound—but it brings everything down."

"I know, Hojam."

"Then remember this... we've all paid a price. "Now it's your turn to decide what you're willing to pay for—love, or the mission?"

A brief silence settled between them.

Outside the window, it had started to rain. Soft, steady. Like words that go unspoken, yet still linger between people.