Lan Yeter | Yeter

"Keep the chair," Demir said, his breath coming in sharp, clean bursts. "I’m going to go watch my daughter dance."

Suddenly, Demir stood up so fast his chair clattered to the floor. The sound cracked like a gunshot. Demir roared.

Across from him sat Selim, his supervisor, tapping a rhythmic, annoying beat on the desk with a gold-plated pen. Yeter Lan Yeter

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.

The silence in the office grew heavy, thick with the hum of the machines outside. Demir looked at the gold pen. He looked at the stack of unpaid invoices on the desk. He thought of every "yes" he had ever forced out of a dry throat. "Keep the chair," Demir said, his breath coming

The tea in Demir’s glass had gone cold, a dark, bitter amber that matched his mood. For three years, he had worked twelve-hour shifts at the textile factory in Bursa, breathing in lint and the sharp scent of industrial dye. Every month, the rent climbed. Every week, the price of bread ticked upward.

"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." Demir roared

Selim stopped tapping. He leaned forward, his smile thin and cold. "Promises don’t pay the bills, Demir. If you aren't here Sunday, don’t bother coming Monday. There are a hundred men outside that gate who would beg for your chair."