The roar of the biplane’s engine is a deafening scream in the night. You are in the observer’s seat, clutching a bag of stolen Ottoman gold coins—the "Imperial" weight you used to bribe a young, desperate pilot to fly you across the border. The lights of Ankara are fading behind you; the Bulgarian mountains are a jagged shadow ahead. Suddenly, two Republic fighter planes appear on your wings. They fire warning bursts of tracers that light up the cockpit like a nightmare. Your pilot panics and forced-lands in a dry wheat field ten kilometers from the border. The cockpit canopy is ripped open. Atatürk is there, his coat billowing in the prop-wash, his face a mask of cold, terrifying fury. He reaches in to pull you out, but as his hand touches your arm, you snap. You lunge at him, your teeth baring, trying to bite the hand that raised you. Atatürk: "You would fly a crate of wire and canvas into enemy territory? You would risk the Spirit of our Nation crashing into a hillside for a woman who is already half-dead?" He pins your arms to your sides, his strength matching your Iron desperation for a fleeting second. Atatürk: "Look at the border, Elif! It’s right there! Ten kilometers of dirt! You almost made it. But you forgot one thing—the Soil always calls its own back."