A metallic clang echoed, a final, mocking punctuation to Ferhan’s pronouncement. The air, already thin, pressed against Zeyran's ribs. Her hand shot out, finding Devran’s, gripping it with a fierce desperation that defied her usual reticence. Every instinct screamed for air, for light, for Baran. Ferhan’s words, a poison spreading through the dark, conjured an image of her son, innocent and unaware, being dragged away by shadowy figures. She felt a frantic tremor pass through Devran’s fingers, a rare crack in his formidable composure. “Baran,” Devran rasped, his voice tight, not with fear for himself, but with a raw, paternal terror. He pulled her closer, his free hand sweeping across the chill, unyielding metal of the vault wall. “The air… it’s recirculating, but not fresh. Ferhan wouldn’t just lock us in. He’d make sure we suffocated.” “He’s right,” Zeyran forced out, her throat tight. “The primary vents pull from the main sales floor. But the supplementary… they’re smaller. Designed for emergency air circulation, but easily blocked. We only have minutes before the oxygen levels drop too low.” Her mind raced, sifting through the blueprints she knew intimately, the very ones Baran had finger-painted on. “The blueprints,” Devran said, his voice sharpening, a sudden clarity cutting through the dread. “Baran’s painting. He highlighted something.” Zeyran’s memory flashed to the vibrant, chaotic swirls of her son’s painting, overlaid with the stark lines of the vault schematics. “The ventilation shaft, in the northwest corner! He used that iridescent green paint on the diagram of the emergency intake. It seemed like a random splattering then, but it’s right where the shaft narrows to a single, corroded plate. A stress point.” Devran moved, his broad shoulders brushing against hers in the absolute dark. The scent of ozone, sharp and acrid, now mingled with something else – a faint, sickly sweet aroma of stale air. He began to systematically pound the wall, his strong hands searching for the point Zeyran described. “This is it,” he grunted, the sound of his fist meeting metal confirming his find. “It’s a weak point. Old. Barely maintained. But it’s sealed tight.” “There’s an emergency access panel. It’s usually rusted shut,” Zeyran said, her fingers tracing the rough texture of the wall beside him. “We need something to pry it.” Devran let out a short, humorless laugh. “I suppose my custom cufflinks won’t do.” He fumbled, then his hand closed over something cold and heavy. “My security badge. It’s reinforced steel for the proximity reader.” Devran wedged the beveled edge of his badge into the hairline seam of the ventilation cover. He grunted, straining, his muscles coiling under his tailored jacket. Zeyran leaned in, adding her weight, her small hands bracing his arm. The metal screeched, a sound like a tortured beast, then groaned. A tiny shard of light, no bigger than a pinprick, appeared. Zeyran sucked in a breath of rusty air. They were close. He yanked, a vein throbbing in his neck. The badge bent, but the metal cover gave way, tearing with a final, violent shriek. A rush of cooler, though still recycled, air flowed in, smelling faintly of the lavish flower arrangements from the gala. Devran pulled again, widening the gap enough for them to squeeze through. “Go,” he ordered, pushing her forward. “I’ll follow.” Zeyran scrambled through the narrow opening, scraping her knees on the rough metal, her dress snagging. She dropped into a maintenance crawlspace, a dust-filled cavity running behind the vault. Devran followed, his large frame making the tight squeeze a struggle, but he emerged moments later, covered in grit and cobwebs. They didn’t pause, bursting through a flimsy panel into a rarely used utility corridor. Their footsteps echoed, a frantic rhythm against the polished marble floor. “Baran,” Zeyran breathed, her legs aching but her resolve unyielding. They raced through the maze of corridors, past hushed galleries and deserted offices, their boots slapping the tile. They burst out of a service entrance, into the chill night air of Kaldarun, and sprinted down the familiar street toward her apartment building. The metallic titanium door, installed by Devran’s 'barista' a few days prior, now seemed a mocking fortress. Devran didn’t bother with the key. He kicked the door open with a single, resounding blow, the military-grade hinges groaning but holding. The apartment was a scene of utter chaos, but not the kind they had imagined. Ferhan Yildiz sat bound to Zeyran’s kitchen chair with Baran’s jump ropes, his bespoke suit coated in neon pink, green, and orange craft flakes. Powdered foil dusted his hair, his cheekbones, his eyelashes, and lined his parted teeth as he wheezed. “My eyes! My beautiful, sensitive eyes!” Ferhan wailed, attempting to rub his shoulder against his face, only grinding mica deeper into his pores. “It’s permanent! He said it was acrylic-sealed! The little demon! He called it ‘Sparkle Dust of the Sun-Gods’ and dumped the whole jar!” Zeyran stared, bewildered, then a choked laugh escaped her. Devran looked from Ferhan’s sequined misery to the burst flour sack on the linoleum, a corner of his mouth twitching. “Baran… he did this?” Zeyran asked, incredulous. “He outsmarted me!” Ferhan sobbed, his voice cracking with humiliation. “I told him I was taking him on an adventure. He said we needed ‘traveling attire’ and then… this! He tied me up when I least expected it. He said he was ‘practicing his knot theory’ from his picture book! And then he told me the ‘Big Boss’ was coming to pick him up and I was ‘too shiny to meet the Big Boss’.” Ferhan gasped, his voice suddenly sharp with genuine terror, the glitter momentarily forgotten. “The Volkov boss. He’s here. In the building. I heard him on the phone with his men, saying he was coming for Baran himself!” Zeyran’s brief smirk fell flat. Devran’s teeth clicked together as he scanned the apartment. “Where is he?” he demanded, his voice low and dangerous. Ferhan pointed a foil-caked chin toward a crumpled sheet on the linoleum. It was drawn in crayon, a crude map of the Sancaktar Grand Auction House, with a wobbly arrow pointing towards the main galleries. Written beneath, in Baran’s familiar, slightly crooked letters, were the words: *“Going to paint the big shiny walls black. Need more canvas.”* Devran and Zeyran exchanged a single, horrified glance. Baran, with a bucket of permanent black paint, was loose in the auction house. The entire corporate labyrinth, the bastion of high culture and million-lira aesthetics, was about to become a toddler’s canvas.

The Glitter Interrogation