"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.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out his factory ID, and slammed it onto the desk. Yeter Lan Yeter
"I can't, Selim Bey," Demir said, his voice a low vibration. "My daughter has her recital. I promised."
Across from him sat Selim, his supervisor, tapping a rhythmic, annoying beat on the desk with a gold-plated pen. "Demir, look," Selim said, not looking up
"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."
"Keep the chair," Demir said, his breath coming in sharp, clean bursts. "I’m going to go watch my daughter dance." No overtime pay this time—we’re 'family,' remember
He walked out of the office, through the lint-filled air of the factory floor. His coworkers watched him, their eyes wide. Demir didn't look back. For the first time in years, the air outside the factory gates didn't smell like chemicals—it just smelled like the wind.