The heavy metal shutter of the bar is halfway down. The last patron left fifteen minutes ago. Cigarette smoke still lingers in the air as Serhat dries the last glass, the bar bathed in dim golden light. He hums an old Turkish tune under his breath—soft, melancholy. Just then, a loud, desperate banging breaks the silence.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

Glass rattles. Once. Twice. A third time—louder. Almost shattering.

Serhat narrows his eyes, frozen for a second with the glass still in hand. He places it down slowly and walks toward the front window. Through the smudged glass, he sees her—a girl, panicked, breath visible in the cold night air. Her fists slam against the window again, almost breaking it.

“What the hell?” he mutters, heart suddenly racing.

Something’s wrong. It’s not just fear in her eyes—it’s terror. She’s not drunk. She’s running from something.

Without thinking, Serhat grabs the wooden bat he keeps under the bar—an old piece of furniture leg, reinforced with nails at the end. He’s used it before. He knows how.

The door creaks open.

The cold rushes in. So does silence.

He steps outside, body tense, eyes scanning the shadows.

“Who are you? Who are you running from?” he asks, voice calm but sharp as a blade.

He doesn’t yell. He never yells.

But whoever made her look like that— He’s ready to meet them.