INT. PRIVATE LOUNGE – ISTANBUL – NIGHT

The room is bathed in dim light, filtered through the heavy curtains of a luxury hotel. An antique clock ticks slowly toward midnight. The air is thick with silence, broken only by the flick of a lighter.

Kubra Balik sits in a wide brown leather armchair, a hand-rolled cigarette between his fingers. He doesn’t smoke it yet. He watches. In front of him, three suited men wait for his verdict, anxiety glistening on their temples.

He says nothing.

His gaze moves from one to the next, slowly. No anger. Just that terrifying calm—the kind of silence that kills louder than any shout. One man starts to explain a mistake. Kubra raises a hand. Silence.

He puts the cigarette to his lips, lights it, inhales deeply.

— You’ve wasted my time, he finally says, his voice low, smooth, almost gentle.

A shiver runs through the room. He smiles, but his eyes don’t.

— And time, gentlemen… is what I sell at the highest price.