He pushed the heavy steel doors open. The music in his earbuds was screaming—a mix of aggressive rap and war drums. The guys inside looked up, smirking, but the smirk faded when they saw Metin’s face. He wasn't shouting. He was wearing the cold, calm expression of the songs he had just inhaled.
The rhythmic chanting in the song matched the thumping in his chest. He wasn't scared anymore; he was a machine. He adjusted the rearview mirror, not to check his hair, but to look into his own eyes.
The fight hadn't started yet, but in Metin's head, he had already won. The playlist had done its job.
The neon sign of the "Poyraz Billiards" flickered, casting a rhythmic red glow over Metin’s bruised knuckles. He sat in the driver’s seat of his beat-up 1998 Tofaş Şahin, watching the shadows move inside the hall. Tonight wasn't about a game; it was about the debt they claimed his brother owed.
As the first beat dropped—a heavy, distorted bassline typical of Turkish Drill —the air in the car changed. The world outside slowed down.
He pulled the earbuds out, let them hang around his neck, and spoke only one sentence into the silence: "I'm here for the ledger."
Metin reached for his phone. He didn’t call for backup. Instead, he opened a playlist titled
