Devran watched the monitor mounted above the main stage, set into an unyielding grimace. The mashed pea print. He knew that specific shade of olive-green, the slightly lumpy texture, the way it smeared just so. He knew the small, plump hand that had made it. His son. His son’s discarded meal, transformed into a multi-million lira ‘masterpiece’ by the rapacious greed of a curator and the utter obliviousness of an entire art market. The rage that simmered beneath his composed exterior threatened to boil over, scalding everything in its path. Ferhan Yildiz would pay. And anyone else who dared to exploit his son. Starting with the preening peacock currently holding court near the Velnar collection. He moved through the glittering throng, a dark, purposeful current against the tide of champagne flutes and simpering smiles. His gaze fixed on Koray, who was loudly regaling a cluster of socialites with an embellished tale of his latest ‘discovery,’ a purported ancient Anatolian weave that Devran knew for a fact was a modern forgery. Koray, who had publicly humiliated Zeyran, who had the gall to question her integrity, and who had dared to touch her in the café. Devran’s every step was a silent promise of retribution. He reached the group, cutting off Koray mid-sentence. “Mr. Vardar.” Devran’s voice, though low, carried an unmistakable edge that silenced the chatter. “A word, if you please. Regarding your rather… uninspired contribution to this evening’s silent auction.” Koray’s smile faltered, replaced by a nervous twitch. “Sancaktar! A pleasure, as always. You mean my Zydaran wall-hanging? A rare find, wouldn’t you agree? Proof of-” “Proof of the declining quality of your authentication methods, perhaps,” Devran interjected, his eyes like glacial chips. He plucked a delicate, gilt-framed scroll from a passing server’s tray, unrolling it with a snap. “This, for instance. Your ‘first edition’ print of the ‘Weeping Sirens of Lyranth.’ Purchased last week at a back-alley bazaar in the Old Quarter for three thousand lira. Its authenticity, a curious proposition given that the original woodblock print was acquired by the Kaldarun Museum of Antiquities in 1978 and has not left their vault since.” The air thickened. Gasps rippled through the small crowd. Koray’s face drained of color. Devran continued, his voice resonating with cool authority. “Or perhaps the ‘lost’ ceramic shard from the Solarian Dynasty, currently valued at eight hundred thousand lira. Interesting, since the original excavation reports, which I possess, indicate the entire site was flooded by a subterranean spring in 1883, rendering all ceramics irretrievable. A detail you seem to have overlooked in your haste to pass off a poorly glazed garden pot fragment.” He let the scroll drop back onto the tray, the sound unnaturally loud. “My… my dear Sancaktar, there must be some mistake,” Koray stammered, beads of sweat forming on his brow. “These are… minor discrepancies, I assure you. Easily explained.” Devran leaned in, his voice dropping to a near whisper, though every word was audible. “The only thing you’ll be explaining, Mr. Vardar, is your involvement in a rather extensive network of art forgery. My security team has already forwarded their findings to the Kaldarun authorities. I believe they’ll be arriving shortly to discuss your ‘discrepancies’ in greater detail.” He straightened, offering a chillingly polite smile. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, what’s left of it.” Two burly security personnel, indistinguishable from the other gala staff save for their focused intensity, appeared at Koray’s elbows. Without a word, they steered the now-pale and sputtering Koray Vardar towards a discreet side exit, his protests muffled by the general buzz of the gala, quickly replaced by whispers and speculative glances. Devran watched him go, a sliver of satisfaction piercing his fury. One problem down. Across the lavish hall, Ferhan Yildiz swirled a glass of imported sparkling wine, a beatific, self-satisfied grin plastered across his face. He watched the massive screen, the mashed pea print now rotating slowly, bathed in a spotlight. He’d done it. He’d found the goose, and he would pluck every golden feather. The anonymous artist was his ticket to the top, a silent, pliable client whose messy creativity would fund Ferhan’s early retirement on a private island. He took a long, decadent sip, oblivious to the three men in ill-fitting tuxedoes who had just entered the main hall, their eyes scanning the restricted guest list pinned near the entrance to the VIP lounge. The men moved with a predator’s economy of motion, cutting through the crowd, their gazes sharp and cold. One of them subtly adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, revealing the glint of metal beneath. Devran, observing from a discreet distance, saw it. Not Sancaktar security. Not local police. These were professionals, and their target was not the auction house’s vault tonight. Their target was the ‘Crimson Sparrow.’ His son. He excused himself from a conversation with a prominent art collector, his smile never wavering, his posture relaxed. But his mind was a whirlwind of calculations. They were moving toward the VIP list, which contained the names of his most valued clients, and by extension, the entry point for accessing anyone within the venue. He couldn’t risk a public altercation, not here, not now. But he wouldn’t let them get close. Devran veered off, seemingly heading towards the coatroom to retrieve an imaginary forgotten item. He moved with a speed that belied his casual stroll, intercepting the three men just as they reached the ornate, mahogany doors of the coatroom. One of them, a bulky individual with a seam of tissue bisecting his left eyebrow, pushed the door open, ushering his two companions inside. Devran followed, closing the heavy door behind him with a soft thud that swallowed the gala’s ambient sounds. The coatroom was a cavern of hanging silks and wool, dimly lit, smelling faintly of expensive perfumes and polished leather. Three pairs of eyes turned to him, surprise flashing in them before being replaced by cold recognition. “Gentlemen,” Devran said, his voice as smooth as aged whiskey, but with a steel core. “I believe you’re in the wrong place.” The marked man merely smirked, reaching inside his tuxedo coat. “Sancaktar. Lucky us. We had a message for your anonymous artist, but a word with you will do.” He pulled out a silenced pistol, its barrel gleaming dully in the low light. Devran didn’t flinch. He moved. His custom-tailored suit coat, an obstacle, was shed in a single, fluid motion, tossed over a rack of mink stoles. He anticipated the first swing, a heavy, lead-weighted punch from the second man, ducking under it with impossible grace. His fist connected with the man’s jaw, a sharp crack echoing in the confined space. The man stumbled back, eyes rolling, collapsing into a pile of winter coats. The marked man fired, the silencer barely muffling the sharp *thwip*. Devran spun, the bullet grazing his collarbone, tearing a neat hole in his pristine white shirt. He absorbed the pain, his focus absolute. He launched himself forward, a blur of dark fabric, kicking the pistol from the scarred man’s hand. It clattered against the parquet floor. Before the man could react, Devran drove his elbow into the man’s solar plexus, twisting him, then slamming his head against the solid oak wardrobe. A sickening thud. The gunman went limp, sliding down the polished wood. The third operative, faster, lunged with a stiletto. Devran caught the wrist, a grimace tightening his features as the blade nicked his palm. He twisted, heard a faint pop, and the stiletto dropped. A quick, brutal knee to the groin, followed by a punch to the temple, and the last man folded, twitching on the floor amidst a cascade of cashmere scarves. Devran stood over them, chest heaving, the scent of blood and sweat mingling with the expensive perfumes. His knuckles were raw, his upper arm throbbed, and his tuxedo shirt was ruined. He surveyed the three unconscious figures, ensuring they were thoroughly incapacitated. He flexed his bruised hand, the small cut on his palm weeping a thin line of red. Just then, the heavy mahogany door creaked open. Zeyran Kocari stood framed in the doorway, her face pale, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and confusion. She had been searching for Devran, rehearsing her carefully worded resignation speech, desperate to escape Kaldarun and the dangerous farce his competition had become. She took in the scene: the three unconscious men sprawled amidst the coats, the dislodged pistol, the lingering smell of gunpowder, and Devran Sancaktar, bruised and bleeding, his outerwear gone, his remaining shirt torn open at the shoulder. Her gaze snapped from the bodies to Devran’s bruised face, then to the dark stain blooming on his shoulder, and finally to the slight tremor in his hand as he wiped blood from his lip. The pieces clicked into place with horrifying clarity. The bizarre protection, the sudden promotion, the possessive intensity in his silver eyes. It all coalesced around one impossible, undeniable truth. “You know about Baran, don’t you?” she gasped, her voice barely a whisper.

Tuxedos and Takedowns