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At the Threshold

We step out from Pera Palace, sunlight slicing Istanbul into blue‑gold ribbons. My Iran notebook is tucked tight under my arm, the city restless—a thousand stories caged just before the moment their fate is decided.

Asdar walks close, copper hair catching the glare, golden eyes scanning every face with a wolf’s decisive gravity. Lean muscle, tattoos, street clothes—devotion radiating, protective and absolute, the kind of presence that silently promises violence if danger gets close.

Karim’s already ahead, bruised but unbowed, pace quick and lithe, every glance a test, every step ready to turn into a run.

Team dynamic: stallion’s energy, wolf’s guard, my pulse steadying somewhere in between.

The plan:  find Ekrem’s people again, confirm the route he hinted at: Van to Tabriz, Sandi traded east across the line. Then make the call. Cross the border.

Then:

My phone buzzes—untraceable number, a single word on the screen:

“Stop.”

I freeze, heart hammering. The second message spikes through before I can breathe:

“They already know you’re coming. Turn around before the game burns you all.”

Karim leans in, eyebrows knitting.

Asdar inches closer, nostrils flaring almost imperceptibly—a hunter’s reflex, wolf‑senses alert, every threat suddenly real, immediate.

Daylight feels like exposed wire. I taste the eyes Istanbul keeps hidden in its bright chaos.

A cold wind flicks across my arms as I scan the café window: a shadow, a half‑known face draws the curtain, watching.

A glint behind it—a reflection, deliberate, another warning coded in human movement.

The phone buzzes again:

“You trust the wrong one.”

The air changes. Sandi’s secret, Ekrem’s info, our plan—none of it feels stable. Someone is moving on a deeper board, rolling pieces just above our reach. Every step forward is a risk; every shadow a possibility that one of us won’t make it back.

“Boss?” Karim’s voice, lower, loaded.

I look to both men—Karim’s restless readiness, Asdar’s golden‑eyed silence, their loyalty the only anchor that feels certain.

The city throbs—Galata Tower rising in the distance, tram bells echoing up Istiklal, Istanbul’s pulse caught between old stones and modern threat.

We stand at the threshold, plan shaking on its hinges, three lives waiting for the code to crack or the game to break us.

Deep breath. One more move before it’s too late.

I.Ph.