Adil Saygın broke the silence at last.
"My condition is simple," he said.
Efsane's fingers twitched in her father's hand, almost involuntarily, a brief spark of tension that reminded her why she was here.
Adil turned his head slightly, just enough to acknowledge his daughter without looking at her.
"You marry my daughter."
The words landed like a blade on stone.
Haznedar surged halfway out of his chair.
Emir froze.
"What?" Haznedar snapped. "You don't get to—"
"I do," Adil interrupted calmly. "Because I'm not asking for protection. I'm not asking for favors. I'm asking for blood."
He looked back at Emrah.
"A marriage binds more tightly than contracts ever will. If you want true peace—if you want families that cannot turn on each other when things get difficult—then you bind us."
Efsane's fingers twitched again, this time in subtle protest.
Before he could continue, Haznedar shot back sharply, eyes blazing.
"No! In that case, Emrah must marry my daughter!"
Efsane's fingers twitched in her father's hand, caught between pride and frustration. Efsun's hand tightened subtly around Haznedar's, a silent signal to remember why they were here.
Emrah remained seated, cane resting lightly at his side, his gaze steady. "I will not marry either of your daughters," he said quietly, yet every word carried weight.
The room froze. The two fathers' expressions hardened, and both daughters felt their hearts skip a beat. Emir, observing, realized his son had crossed a point of no return.
This meeting was no longer just about agreements or business—it was about power, authority, and the choices Emrah was willing to make… even if it meant defying everyone.
Adil's eyes narrowed, jaw tight. "You will not insult me, Aybeyli. Marrying my daughter is the price of this alliance!"
Haznedar's glare was equally sharp. "And I will not be outdone. Emrah will marry my daughter, or this meeting is over!"
Efsun and Efsane exchanged a quick, tense glance. Both felt the weight of their fathers' pride and expectations pressing down on them. Efsun's hand twitched, as if she wanted to intervene, while Efsane's fingers clenched her father's arm in silent defiance.
Emir Aybeyli leaned back slightly, the corners of his mouth tight. He studied his son, a mixture of admiration and concern in his gaze. Emrah's calm, unflinching stance, his refusal to bend even under the combined pressure of two powerful mafia families, marked a turning point. His son had crossed the point of no return.
Emrah's voice cut through the mounting tension, low and precise. "I will not marry either of your daughters. My goal is peace, not politics. If your daughters are to be part of this future, it will be on my terms, not yours."
A silence fell over the room. The fathers' eyes flared with anger, the daughters' faces betrayed a mix of shock, awe, and… something unspoken.
Adil's hand clenched into a fist, then he forced himself to relax. "So, you would risk everything… including your own life?"
Emrah's gaze didn't waver. "I've already faced death. What comes next is irrelevant if it means securing peace—for my family, and for yours."
Haznedar leaned back, eyebrows raised. "This boy… he's not like anyone I've ever met."
Efsun and Efsane, their hands still clasped around their fathers' arms, exchanged a glance. Both knew that, whatever happened next, their lives—and Emrah's—would never be the same.
Emrah's voice was calm, almost chilling in its honesty. "I'm sick," he said, letting the words hang in the room like a verdict. "I will practically die at the age of forty. Do you really want a cripple like me to marry your daughters?"
A ripple of shock spread across both fathers. Their daughters stiffened, caught between disbelief and the sudden, undeniable weight of his words. Efsun's fingers twitched against her father's arm, and Efsane's hand clenched in silent tension.
Emir Aybeyli's eyes narrowed, but he didn't speak. He simply studied his son—this same son who had orchestrated the meeting, commanded the room, and now revealed a vulnerability that only made him more… formidable. The point of no return had been crossed.
Adil Saygin's jaw tightened. "So this… this is your truth?"
Emrah's gaze didn't waver. "Yes. And yet, even with this sickness, I will not allow anyone to bring war to our families. I will protect peace, not bow to politics. If your daughters are to be part of that, it will be on my terms."
Haznedar's eyes flicked to his daughter, then back to Emrah. The room fell into a tense silence, each heartbeat echoing the unspoken truth: Emrah was no ordinary man.
At that moment, Emrah didn't realize it, but his words had done the opposite of what he intended. Instead of discouraging them, his honesty—the admission of his illness, the mention of his impending mortality—made both fathers even more determined. To them, a man willing to face death yet still command respect, protect his family, and uphold peace was exactly the kind of man they wanted for their daughters.
The irony was sharp, though Emrah remained unaware: the very thing he hoped would make them back off was what drew them in further.
Adil's eyes were sharp, unyielding. "I don't care about your sickness," he said firmly. "The only thing that matters is that he can do things… things normal and healthy people can't. That's why Efsane accepts no one else but him."
Efsane's fingers twitched in his hand, a mix of fear and determination, while her father's gaze burned with quiet insistence. Haznedar's protest was immediate, his voice rising. "No! Emrah must marry my daughter!"
Emrah was silent for a long moment. Then he exhaled slowly, as if settling something deep inside himself.
"Alright," he said at last. "If you truly insist on this… then I have a counteroffer."
Every eye in the room locked onto him.
"I will marry both of your daughters."
The words hit like a shockwave.
Efsun's breath caught. Efsane's fingers went rigid in her father's grip. Even Emir straightened slightly, stunned.
"That way," Emrah continued calmly, "peace is guaranteed. No favoritism. No rivalry. No blood spilled over pride."
He paused, then added—quiet, deliberate, mercilessly honest:
"But understand this clearly. I am sick. I will be paralyzed by forty. Do not ruin your daughters' futures by chaining them to a man who will one day be unable to walk, to fight, or to protect them."
Silence swallowed the room.
The fathers stared at him, weighing legacy against truth. The daughters felt something far more dangerous than fear settle in their chests—resolve.
Emir Aybeyli knew it then.
His son wasn't asking.
He was rewriting the rules.
And whether the world was ready or not, Emrah Aybeyli had just become the axis around which it would turn.
The fathers exchanged a glance—long, calculating, full of unspoken history and ambition.
Adil Saygın cleared his throat, his fingers tightening around Efsane's hand. "Very well," he said, voice calm, controlled. "We accept your… unusual proposal."
Haznedar didn't blink, though his jaw tightened imperceptibly. "Agreed. Peace must come first. But," he added, almost as an afterthought, "there are conditions. Conditions we will discuss… later."
Emrah nodded slowly, not surprised. He had expected this—these men never gave anything freely, not even to a dying man.
The daughters, meanwhile, shifted slightly, unnoticed by the fathers. Efsun's eyes sparkled with a mix of exasperation and awe. Her hand rested lightly on the table, fingers twitching as she processed the audacity of Emrah's words.
Efsane's expression was harder, but her fingers betrayed her resolve—they clenched subtly around Adil's hand, knuckles whitening. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she stared at Emrah with a storm of conflicted feelings: anger, admiration, fear, and something else, something dangerously close to fascination.
They exchanged a subtle glance, a silent agreement between them: whatever the fathers' negotiations, whatever games were being played, they would remember what had brought them here.
And somewhere deep inside, both knew—they were thinking of Emrah not just as the man who could save their families from ruin, but as the man who had rewritten the rules of their world.
Emir Aybeyli, watching from the side, felt a chill run down his spine. His son, the one he had thought fragile, had crossed a line that could never be uncrossed. And for the first time, he wondered if anyone—father, rival, or daughter—would ever control Emrah again.
Adil spoke first, his voice measured, almost gentle. "Our condition is simple," he said. "Yet absolute."
Haznedar nodded in agreement. "There will be grandchildren."
The room stilled.
"Not one family more than the other," Adil continued. "An equal number of children. If Efsun bears a child, then Efsane must as well. Balance must be maintained. Always."
They said it like a business clause. Like inheritance math. Like something that could be written into a contract and enforced with signatures.
Emrah felt the weight of it sink into his chest.
Children.
His fingers tightened around his cane.
They were asking him to bring life into a future he didn't believe he would be part of.
He still thought the clock was ticking. Still believed his body would betray him completely by forty. That one day soon he would be trapped inside himself—unable to walk, unable to move, unable to be the father a child deserved.
I will ruin them, he thought.
He imagined children growing up with stories instead of memories. A father who faded early. A man who chose peace for the world but left his own blood behind to pay the price.
Emrah lifted his gaze, steady but heavy. "Do you understand what you're asking?" he said quietly. "You want me to create lives I won't be able to protect. To leave them with a broken man as a memory."
Neither father flinched.
Because to them, legacy mattered more than presence.
Across the table, Efsun's breath caught. Her confident expression cracked for the first time. The idea of children—his children—hit her harder than any gunshot ever had.
Efsane's nails dug into her palm. Her jaw clenched, eyes darkening—not with fear, but with resolve. If Emrah thought he would disappear, she was already deciding she wouldn't let him.
And Emrah sat there, believing he was sacrificing his future so that everyone else could have one.
Not knowing—
that time had already chosen him to stay.
Outside the perception of everyone in the room, beyond the flow of normal time, a presence observed. Silent. Immense.
The God of Time's gaze lingered on Emrah, felt the weight of his thoughts, his fears, the cruel irony of the fathers' demand. Life and death, legacy and sacrifice—it all trembled beneath the fragile thread of human decision.
So this is the choice, a voice, both ancient and futuristic, resonated in the void beyond time. The boy—no, the man—is standing at the threshold of his destiny. Will he yield to fear, or rise beyond it?
The God's observation was neither judgment nor interference. Yet every heartbeat of Emrah, every conflicted thought, rippled outward like a stone cast into eternity.
Subject ∞… the path you walk is fraught with paradox. But the mark of Infinity has already chosen its bearer.
A flicker of awareness—unseen, unfelt by the world below—passed through Emrah's veins. Not enough to warn him. Not yet. But enough to whisper that time itself was watching.
And in that silence, the God of Time waited, patient, unblinking, for the man who would shape generations.