CUT ARTERIES
Past midnight. Istanbul lay under a grey fog that pressed the city's noise down to a murmur. In Mert's office, Kerem had thrown his jacket over a chair and rolled his shirtsleeves to the elbow. On the table: an old file. A name Arslan had believed was safely buried. "This person," said Kerem, sliding the file toward Mert, "is the hidden engine behind everything Arslan runs. The private port operations, the undeclared cargo moving through customs — all of it is funded from this single source. If this man pulls out, Arslan cannot pay his security detail. His construction sites freeze. His shipments sit on docks until they rot." Mert picked up the file. He read without speaking. When he set it down his eyes had changed — not the flat fury of the hospital, but something more precise. Colder.
- Writer
