Across from him sat Selim, his supervisor, tapping a rhythmic, annoying beat on the desk with a gold-plated pen.
The tea in Demir’s glass had gone cold, a dark, bitter amber that matched his mood. For three years, he had worked twelve-hour shifts at the textile factory in Bursa, breathing in lint and the sharp scent of industrial dye. Every month, the rent climbed. Every week, the price of bread ticked upward.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out his factory ID, and slammed it onto the desk.
"I can't, Selim Bey," Demir said, his voice a low vibration. "My daughter has her recital. I promised."
