"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."
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
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
Demir felt a heat rising from his chest, a slow-burn fire he had kept dampened for years to keep his daughter in school and his mother in medicine. He thought of his worn-out boots, the holes in his floorboards, and the way Selim’s new car gleamed in the parking lot. No overtime pay this time—we’re 'family,' remember
Selim stopped tapping. He leaned forward, his smile thin and cold. "Promises don’t pay the bills, Demir. If you aren't here Sunday, don’t bother coming Monday. There are a hundred men outside that gate who would beg for your chair."
Across from him sat Selim, his supervisor, tapping a rhythmic, annoying beat on the desk with a gold-plated pen.