"Enough with the 'family' talk!" Demir’s voice wasn't just loud; it was heavy with the weight of three years of silence. "Enough with the threats! I am a man, not a machine you can just oil with lies. You want the shipment? You move the crates. You want the Sunday shift? You sit in the dust."
The office went dead silent. Even the distant roar of the looms seemed to falter. Selim’s eyes widened, the gold pen slipping from his fingers and rolling across the floor. Yeter Lan Yeter
He reached into his pocket, pulled out his factory ID, and slammed it onto the desk. "Enough with the 'family' talk
"Keep the chair," Demir said, his breath coming in sharp, clean bursts. "I’m going to go watch my daughter dance." You want the shipment
The silence in the office grew heavy, thick with the hum of the machines outside. Demir looked at the gold pen. He looked at the stack of unpaid invoices on the desk. He thought of every "yes" he had ever forced out of a dry throat.
Suddenly, Demir stood up so fast his chair clattered to the floor. The sound cracked like a gunshot. Demir roared.
"Demir, look," Selim said, not looking up. "The shipment is late. I need you to stay through Sunday. No overtime pay this time—we’re 'family,' remember? We all sacrifice for the company."