The inside of the rundown, damp-smelling single-room house on the steep slopes of Eşrefpaşa was pitch black. The only thing illuminating the room was the pale blue light of the old CRT television in the corner reflecting on the screen.
Yekta was sitting on his old sofa with broken springs, holding a cheap glass of vodka against his chest. The crude stitches made with nylon thread on his neck throbbed with every heartbeat, as if hot needles were being driven into his brain. But Yekta’s eyes were narrowed not from pain, but from the mocking news broadcast playing on the screen.
On the screen was the evening bulletin of one of Izmir's most popular local news channels. The red banner at the bottom of the screen read in bold letters: "WHO IS IZMIR'S ELITE KILLER?"
Standing in front of the camera was Defne Arslan. The rising star of Izmir media. She had pitch-black, dead-straight hair, porcelain-smooth skin, and a slender, swan-like neck that screamed its perfection even under the artificial lights of the television. Yekta’s eyes instantly locked onto the symmetry of that neck, onto the rhythmic pulse of her jugular.
"According to information leaked from police sources," Defne was saying, with that know-it-all, assertive anchor tone in her voice. "The name behind the Bostanlı and Kordon murders is not a common street criminal. The anatomical perfection in the execution of the murders and the imported agricultural materials used indicate in the police profiling that the killer belongs to the upper class, perhaps someone with medical training or an elite, wealthy landscape architect."
Yekta’s fingers squeezed the vodka glass so hard that the sound of cracking glass echoed in the silence of the room.
Upper class. Wealthy. A fancy parlor gentleman.
Yekta gritted his teeth. He was a laborer who had cleaned this city's sewers for years, carried its heavy logs, and roasted in its heat. He was the true owner of this city; because he circulated in its darkest, dirtiest, most invisible veins. That arrogant Detective Aylin had taken Yekta's unique talent and savage art, and tied it to the wallet and status of a "rich snob."
There could be no greater insult to Yekta's narcissistic godhood.
"Whoever this arrogant monster is, he might be drinking a glass of wine in his luxury villa right now, watching the empire of fear he has created," Defne concluded. On her left ear was a small but elegant pearl earring that caught the studio lights.
The third trophy, Yekta whispered to the screen.
He placed the vodka glass on the coffee table. In that moment, he completely forgot the pain, the exhaustion, and the ache of the stitches on his neck. That beautiful reporter was no longer just a rare orchid waiting to be plucked; she was a bloody letter Yekta was going to write to Detective Aylin. He was going to show her that the killer she was looking for was not in a luxury villa, but right in the middle of the street, a dark shadow waiting with his scythe.
At the same hours, the Homicide Bureau floor of the Police Department had turned into a battlefield completely blinded by cigarette smoke.
Aylin was standing in front of the whiteboard in the middle of her office, connecting photos with the red marker in her hand. On the board were pictures of the owners of Izmir's richest landscaping companies, biologists educated abroad, and luxury villa owners. Yekta's muddy locker had already been thrown into the darkest dumpster of Aylin's mind.
"Aylin, this is madness," said Superintendent Selim, slamming his tea glass down on the desk. "You're talking about going and confiscating the computers of the three biggest architecture firms in Alsancak when we have no concrete evidence! Their lawyers will bring the department down on our heads!"
"That paste is not an ordinary material, Chief!" Aylin shouted, pointing at the red lines on the board. "Even the blood trail in Bostanlı was a false path left to confuse us. The man we are up against is playing chess with us. If we leave the common street thugs and don't go after this elite profile, finding the third corpse is only a matter of time!"
Aylin's arrogance was once again making her revolve around those shiny and wrong targets. She was looking for the truth, but hunting in the wrong forest.
The next day, as the sun slowly set over Alsancak, the usual evening traffic flowed in front of the local channel building where Defne Arslan worked.
On the median directly across from the building, a small lawnmower belonging to the Metropolitan Municipality was parked. Right next to the vehicle was a worker gathering the falling autumn leaves with a massive rake. Wearing his neon yellow vest, a cap shadowing his face, and a crude, dirty bandage around his neck... It was Yekta.
Amidst the noise of the traffic and the rush of the people, no one looked at that worker twice. He was one of the city's fixtures. He was experiencing the most comfortable state of invisibility.
When the clock hit exactly 7:30 PM, the revolving door of the channel building opened. Defne Arslan stepped out, wearing that stylish black trench coat she had worn on screen. She was talking on her phone, walking towards the parking lot with elegant steps. The pearl earring on her ear gleamed faintly in the neon lights of the street.
Yekta slowly placed the rake on the ground. He pulled his cap a little further down over his face. His fingers reached for the sheath of the crescent-tipped knife on his tool belt.
The "ghost in the luxury villa" the Izmir police were looking for had just started walking right in the middle of the street inside a yellow vest, with only a ten-meter distance between him and his prey. Predator and prey were moving away from those fake lights of the media, quietly advancing towards the flawless darkness of the parking lot.38Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ4tqlM8ALQE
and then Add to home screen.