Emrah informed his family calmly.
"I'll be out for a while," he said, adjusting his coat. "Efsane and her father invited me."
No explanations. No hesitation.
His mother studied his face, searching for signs of strain. His father only nodded once—approval without words. In the Aybeyli household, silence often meant trust.
Minutes later, Emrah was in the back seat of Adil Saygın's car. Efsane sat beside him, composed as ever, her posture elegant, her gaze fixed on the road ahead.
The city slipped past the windows, replaced gradually by cleaner roads, taller trees, and a quieter atmosphere.
Adil broke the silence first.
"You understand what people are saying now," he said evenly. "About you. About us."
Emrah gave a faint smile. "People always talk."
"Yes," Adil agreed. "But now they listen."
Efsane glanced at Emrah, her voice calm but deliberate.
"My father thinks you're good for the future. For stability."
Emrah met her gaze briefly. "And you?"
A pause—measured, intentional.
"I think," Efsane said, "that a man who makes enemies nervous without raising his voice is dangerous in the right way."
Adil chuckled softly. "Careful, kızım. Compliments like that tend to bind men faster than contracts."
Emrah said nothing. He simply watched the road ahead.
The car turned through iron gates into a vast green expanse. Perfectly cut grass stretched endlessly, broken only by white sand traps and distant figures moving with slow precision.
"A golf club?" Emrah asked, mildly amused.
Adil nodded. "Neutral ground. Old power prefers quiet places."
They parked near the main building—modern, expensive, understated. Inside, the air smelled of polished wood and wealth that didn't need to announce itself.
Several men turned to look.
Then quickly looked away.
Adil walked ahead, Emrah beside him, Efsane half a step behind—not submissive, but deliberate.
They stopped near a wide window overlooking the course.
Adil spoke a single word.
"Father."
The man standing there turned around.
He was tall—unnaturally so for his age—his posture straight despite the years etched into his face. His hair was silver, his eyes sharp, carrying the weight of decades that had bent governments and families alike.
Efsane's grandfather.
Cengiz Saygın.
The true patriarch.
His gaze fell on Emrah—not curious, not surprised.
Measured.
"So," Cengiz said, his voice deep and calm, "this is the boy who rearranged Istanbul without firing a shot."
Emrah inclined his head slightly, respectful but unbowed.
"Emrah Aybeyli," the man continued. "I've been hearing your name since before you realized it mattered."
The grandfather stepped closer, his presence pressing down like gravity.
"Sit," he said, gesturing to the chairs. "Let's see whether the future deserves its reputation."
Efsane remained standing, eyes sharp.
And for the first time since the alliance was formed, Emrah felt it clearly—
This meeting wasn't about approval.
It was about judgment.
Cengiz Saygın took his seat without ceremony.
The leather chair creaked under his weight, but the man himself seemed carved from something harder than bone. He folded his hands atop a silver-tipped cane—older than Emrah's, heavier, earned rather than borrowed.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Silence, Emrah realized, was the first test.
Men rushed to fill it. Boys feared it. Kings let it stretch.
Emrah waited.
Cengiz's lips curved faintly. Approval—small, but real.
"They tell me you hate drugs," Cengiz said at last, voice calm, conversational. "No selling. No smuggling. A clean empire."
Emrah nodded once. "I don't hate them."
That was deliberate.
Cengiz's eyes sharpened slightly.
"I hate what they do when they're uncontrolled," Emrah continued. "And who they end up in the hands of."
Cengiz leaned back. "Careful," he said mildly. "That sounds like moral talk."
"It's logistical," Emrah replied. "Morality doesn't survive markets. Structure does."
The old man's gaze stayed fixed on him, probing.
"So you don't care that drugs destroy lives?" Cengiz asked.
Trap number two.
Emrah didn't hesitate. "I care very much," he said. "Which is why I don't allow them near children. Or unstable markets. Or desperate populations."
Cengiz's fingers tapped the cane once.
"You know," he said, "most men either condemn me or beg me."
"I'm not most men," Emrah said quietly.
Another pause.
Cengiz studied him openly now. "You banned selling to hot-headed youths," he said. "Why?"
Emrah met his eyes. "Because angry boys with guns and chemicals don't grow into soldiers or leaders."
"They grow into liabilities," Cengiz finished.
A ghost of a smile appeared.
"And rape?" Cengiz asked suddenly. No warning. No buildup.
Efsane stiffened beside her father.
Emrah's voice hardened—not louder, just colder. "There is no profit that justifies it."
Cengiz watched him carefully. "Even if it keeps the streets quiet?"
"Especially then," Emrah said. "Fear that rots from the inside eventually collapses everything built on it."
Silence fell again.
This time, Cengiz broke it with a low chuckle.
"Good," he said. "Because I bury men for that."
Efsane exhaled slowly.
Cengiz leaned forward now, elbows on his knees.
"Tell me something, Emrah Aybeyli," he said. "Are you pretending to be weak so people underestimate you—"
He tilted his head slightly.
"—or are you pretending to be dangerous so they don't notice how fragile you really are?"
The room seemed to narrow.
Emrah took a breath, steadying himself on the cane.
"I'm sick," he said plainly. "That's not a lie."
Cengiz waited.
"But weakness," Emrah continued, "is when a man lets his limitations decide his vision."
He looked directly at Cengiz.
"I let mine decide my efficiency."
For the first time, the old man's smile was real.
"You don't deny what you are," Cengiz said softly. "You weaponize it."
He nodded once.
"That's rare."
Cengiz rose to his feet, towering over Emrah.
"You should know something," he said. "I run the drug veins of this city. And several others. I despise human trafficking. I despise rape. I tolerate chaos only when it serves order."
He leaned in just enough that only Emrah could hear him.
"If you were lying to me, you'd be dead already."
He stepped back and gestured toward the golf course beyond the glass.
"But you're not."
Cengiz turned to Efsane.
"Watch him carefully," he said. "Men like this don't destroy cities."
His eyes returned to Emrah.
"They replace them."
And in that moment, Emrah understood:
This wasn't an interrogation.
It was recognition.
Cengiz studied Emrah for a long moment after the last exchange, then let out a slow breath—heavy, tired, human.
"You've got balls," he said plainly. "Ending all drug activity outright? Most men your age would call that suicide."
He waved a hand dismissively, then added, quieter, "But I'm old now. I've buried too many friends, too many enemies. I like the idea of a cleaner world… even if I won't live long enough to enjoy it."
That admission alone would've shaken most men.
Emrah only inclined his head.
"There is something else," Cengiz continued, his voice lowering. "Something that's been bothering me."
The casual tone vanished.
"There's a figure operating from the shadows. No face. No past. No trace. My people can't find him. Haznedar's people can't find him. Even the fools who think they run this city whisper about him like he's a ghost."
Efsane's eyes narrowed. She had heard the rumors too—fragmented, contradictory, terrifying.
Cengiz leaned forward.
"I want you to find him."
Emrah didn't answer immediately.
"And when you do," Cengiz added calmly, "bring him to me. Dead or alive."
The words landed without drama. Without emotion. Like stating the weather.
Emrah finally spoke. "Does this ghost have a name?"
Cengiz's jaw tightened—just slightly.
"They call him Doctor Everlaster."
The name felt wrong the moment it was spoken. Too deliberate. Too arrogant.
"The word on the street," Cengiz went on, "is that Everlaster works for someone else. Someone higher. Someone no one has ever identified."
Adil shifted uncomfortably. Even he looked uneasy now.
"They're developing a drug," Cengiz said. "Not like anything we've seen. Not recreational. Not addictive in the usual way."
Emrah's eyes sharpened. "What does it do?"
Cengiz shook his head. "That's the problem. No one knows. Test subjects disappear. Distributors vanish. Entire networks go silent overnight."
He leaned closer.
"But the whispers all say the same thing: this drug doesn't just ruin lives."
"It changes people."
The room seemed colder.
"They're planning to sell it worldwide," Cengiz finished. "Every continent. Every market. No rules. No limits."
Emrah felt something stir deep inside him—not fear, not excitement.
Recognition.
"That's all I know," Cengiz said at last. "Which is why I'm giving it to you."
Efsane turned toward Emrah, searching his face.
Cengiz straightened, towering once more.
"If this Doctor Everlaster succeeds," he said quietly, "then your rules, your alliances, your clean world—none of it will matter."
He met Emrah's gaze, unwavering.
"So tell me, Emrah Aybeyli."
A pause.
"Do you accept?"
The room went quiet.
Then—
the system spoke.
Not aloud.
Not for anyone else.
Only for him.
"Hidden conditions met."
Emrah's pulse skipped—not in fear, but in awareness.
"Congratulations, Subject Infinity."
The words settled into his mind with mechanical certainty, colder than any human voice.
"First Mission unlocked."
He kept his expression neutral. Calm. Weak, even.
No one in the room noticed the shift.
Cengiz was still watching him closely, mistaking silence for calculation.
Inside Emrah's mind, the system continued.
"Mission Designation: Silent Extraction."
"Target: Doctor Everlaster."
A faint pressure formed behind Emrah's eyes.
"Clear Conditions established:"
• Capture the target alive
• Extract all available intelligence
• Terminate the target immediately after confirmation
No trials.
No mercy clauses.
No alternatives.
"Failure condition: Target escapes."
"Mission importance: Absolute."
Emrah inhaled slowly through his nose.
So this was it.
Not peace.
Not balance.
A path.
Across the table, Cengiz was still speaking—something about timelines, informants, resources—but Emrah heard it like distant noise. His gaze drifted, unfocused, as if he were thinking deeply.
Which, in a way, he was.
Capture.
Interrogate.
Kill.
Clean. Final.
The system added one last line, quieter than the rest.
"Warning: Target possesses non-standard enhancements."
Emrah's fingers twitched once—barely noticeable.
He looked back up, meeting Cengiz's eyes at last.
"I accept," Emrah said aloud.
Cengiz studied him for a heartbeat longer… then nodded.
Good, the old man seemed to think.
Another ruthless leader.
He had no idea.
Because as Emrah leaned back in his chair, cane resting lightly against his leg, one thought settled firmly into place:
This wasn't a request.
This was the beginning of his reign.