The family estate waited for him like a childhood memory that had grown walls.
High gates. Long drive. Mansion at the end like a statement carved into stone and glass.
The car wound through Istanbul's streets, engines humming in the rhythm of the city. The briny hint of the Bosphorus drifted through open windows. Roasted chestnuts and sweet baklava from street vendors mingled with the rich aroma of simmering spices. Ferries whispered against the piers, car horns honked impatiently, and seagulls called overhead. Chaos in motion, vibrant and indifferent.
Emrah's gaze swept past it all, calm and precise. For a moment, he noticed—the city alive and sprawling, yet unaware of him. The smell of fresh bread, roasting fish, and the faint tang of salt from the sea brushed against his senses like a reminder that life continued, indifferent to calculations, plans, or centuries of anticipation.
Aslan sat beside him, eyes hidden in the shadow of the SUV's tinted windows. "It's changed, hasn't it?" he murmured, voice low, almost swallowed by the engine hum.
Emrah's eyes flicked to him, neutral. "It has. Only the details differ."
The guards stiffened as the car approached the estate. Pine and wet stone from the gardens mixed with the faint sea breeze. When Emrah stepped out, the mansion greeted him with polish, subtle scent of old wood, and a whisper of cologne—its silence heavy with expectation.
Their expressions faltered—a beat where recognition had to fight against time.
"Beyefendi…?" one managed.
Emrah planted his cane, letting the weight settle. A faint, controlled smile touched his lips.
"Tell my father," he said evenly, "his son's home."
Simple sentence. Complicated history.
Inside, the mansion smelled exactly as he remembered: polish, cologne, and the faint aroma of roasted lamb and fresh pastries drifting upward, layered over money pretending to be heritage.
Sahra, his younger sister, came first. Her footsteps were quiet but deliberate. She stopped short, scanning him, measuring the changes time had wrought.
"Emrah…" she said softly, voice sharp with restrained emotion, "I'm still not happy about you not coming for our wedding."
Emrah paused. "Sahra… you know why. I couldn't risk—"
"You couldn't or you chose not to?" she interrupted, brow furrowed.
"I couldn't," he repeated evenly. "I wasn't free to leave. There were obligations."
Yusuf, Sahra's husband, placed a hand lightly on her shoulder. "She's right, he's here now. That's what matters. Let's not start old arguments tonight."
Sahra exhaled, tension loosening just slightly. "Fine. But you owe me one."
Emrah inclined his head. "I know. And I will make it right."
Leyla, Emrah's mother, descended the stairs, her presence radiant even under the soft lamp light. Her eyes glimmered with relief and unspoken concern.
"Emrah… my son," she said, voice warm but tinged with worry. "You've returned safely. You've changed… but you are still mine."
Emrah's faint smile acknowledged her. "Time changes us all, mother. But I remain myself."
She reached out and lightly touched his arm, brushing the cane. "Some things never leave us, even when we return stronger."
Emir, his father, appeared from the study, his dark eyes sharp and appraising. He studied Emrah for a long moment before speaking. "You've returned. I assume your… business is concluded?"
"It is," Emrah replied evenly.
Emir nodded once, curtly. "Good. We will speak properly later. For now… rest. The party waits."
A house staff member guided him to his room—large, immaculate, impersonal, lit only by the faint glow of bedside lamps. Midnight. The mansion was almost silent, save for the hum of air conditioning and the soft shuffle of staff through corridors.
He set his cane down and pulled the chocolate from his pocket. Ordinary wrapper. No glow. No whisper of power. He unwrapped it carefully, took a slow bite, and placed the rest into his drawer, folding the wrapper neatly beside it. Later, he would remember the sharp crack of the chocolate breaking.
Halfway through, a flicker caught the corner of his eye—time stuttering like a scratched film frame—then smoothing again. He blinked.
Just a trick of the light, he thought. Maybe it was nothing.
A knock interrupted him. Aslan entered with a garment bag.
"You're not dressed?"
"I wasn't aware survival came with a dress code," Emrah replied dryly.
"Wear this. Had it made. You'll fit."
Emrah considered refusing. But Aslan's voice softened. "Just tonight. Don't leave me alone with these people."
He changed slowly, each motion measured. His legs pulsed like tired machinery, MS reminding him of every limitation. Yet years of martial arts, championship swordsmanship, and Oxford engineering ensured even weakness looked invisible. Every movement was calculation.
He descended the grand staircase. Soft classical music mingled with the aroma of roasted lamb, pastries, and faint tang of wine. Guests lingered in small groups, murmuring, glasses catching chandelier light.
Sahra approached, eyes narrowing in careful scrutiny. "Emrah… tell me… have you truly changed?"
"I have learned," he said softly, "but I am still the same. Only sharper in what matters."
Aunt Şeyma and Uncle Mehmet came forward, daughter Nilay shyly peeking from behind.
"Emrah," Aunt Şeyma said smoothly, "it's… good to have you back. Though I confess, I worried over your absence. And your health… it's still fragile, yes?"
Emrah straightened. "MS reminds me of its presence, but it does not define my actions. I am still capable of more than anyone expects."
Nilay asked softly, "Will you be alright tonight, cousin?"
"I will," he said. "It may be slow at times, but I will not falter."
Uncle Mehmet nodded. "You've always been disciplined, Emrah. I see that now more than ever. But do not push yourself beyond what your body allows. We do not want regrets."
Emrah's gaze swept the room. "I appreciate your concern, uncle, aunt. But tonight, I am present. That is enough."
"Tell me," Aunt Şeyma leaned in, curious, "all these years… where have you been? Thailand? Malaysia? Dubai?"
Emrah's lips curved faintly. "Thailand, Malaysia, Dubai, the Philippines, Vietnam, Brazil, Colombia…"
The family murmured, impressed.
"And the United States?" Nilay asked hesitantly.
"I have my own reasons," he said softly, letting the words hang like a lock of mystery.
From the red chair near the window—his old throne—Emrah observed: alliances forming, glances exchanged, agendas wrapped in polite smiles. Vodka on the table. Cane leaning at his side. Everything looked perfect.
But something in the night felt too still, like a held breath.
A subtle vibration tickled his senses. A flicker of awareness—a power stirring he hadn't fully tested. Just a hint, but enough.
A sensation near his wrist—as if time were stretching again—then vanished. He frowned.
Outside, darkness pressed against the glass.
Then—
Engines. Gravel tearing. No headlights.
SUVs surged through the drive, shredding gardens. Guards reacted too late. Gunfire shattered the midnight calm. Doors burst open. Men in masks flooded the entrance.
And Emrah—master swordsman, martial artist, Oxford-trained, MS reminding him of every weakness—felt time pull again, thin and slow, like a crack spreading through glass. Shock hit him, but instincts and precision took over.
He sensed the bullets' trajectories, weight, and rhythm. Muscles tensed, compensating for fatigue, mind calculating the fastest responses.
The first bullet fired.
Emrah blinked—
—and it froze mid-air.