The scent of wilting lilies clung to the air, thick and mournful, a fitting shroud for her mentor's final act. Ozanira Kadir stood rigid among the hushed mourners, her tailored black suit a stark contrast to the faded opulence of the Karsan Cinematic Guild’s memorial hall. Her mentor’s empty urn sat on a velvet plinth, marked by a lifework prematurely extinguished by the industry’s rapacious appetite. Ozanira’s own grief was a sharp, cold ember in her chest, but even in this sanctuary of sorrow, her eyes scanned, assessing, cataloging every face, every feigned expression of condolence. Every interaction was a transaction; even death demanded a performance. A sudden, jarring laugh ripped through the solemn quiet. Heads turned. Ozanira’s gaze snapped to the entrance. Cengiz Vardar, her ex-boyfriend and the very studio executive who’d blacklisted her, strode in, his expensive charcoal suit an insultingly bright beacon in the gloom. On his arm hung Leyla Serin, a starlet whose ambition was only outmatched by her newly acquired nose and the blinding diamond on her left hand. Cengiz always knew how to make an entrance, how to steal the spotlight, even from the dead. He moved with predatory grace, Leyla trailing like an expensive accessory, until he stood before Ozanira. His smile was a practiced sneer, his eyes devoid of any genuine sorrow. “Ozanira, my dear. Still haunting the hallowed halls?” He inclined his head towards the urn, a mockery of respect. “Your teacher… a tragic loss. Though, if we’re honest, her best years were behind her.” Ozanira’s jaw ached with the effort of not responding. She met his gaze, an arctic calm settling over her features. “Unlike yours, Cengiz. Are you here to offer condolences, or to gloat?” He chuckled, a low, grating sound. “Always so direct. I came to offer you a lifeline, actually. A role. A small one, of course, given your… recent difficulties.” Leyla squeezed his arm, a simpering smile plastered on her face. Ozanira felt the collective eyes of the Guild members watching, dissecting. This was Cengiz’s public humiliation ritual. He wanted to drag her back, to control her, to ensure she never rose above the background. “A lifeline?” Ozanira’s voice was dangerously soft. “From the man who sank my boat?” “Nonsense. Think of it as an olive branch. We’re casting a new historical epic, ‘The Crimson Sovereign.’ A grand production. I could put you in as… a market vendor. A speaking line, perhaps. You’d be an asset to the background, give it a certain… gravitas.” His eyes glinted with malice. “It would, of course, require you to sign an exclusive agreement with Vardar Studios for the next five years. No other work, no independent projects. Just us.” Five years. Five years of being Cengiz’s pawn, a ghost in his productions, her talent stifled, her ambition crushed. The humiliation burned hotter than any grief. This wasn't an offer; it was a cage. She needed an escape. Now. Her gaze darted, desperate, latching onto a forgotten clause in the Karsan Cinematic Guild charter. A lead performer, under specific circumstances, could circumvent a predatory studio pact by securing a legal proxy through immediate marital union, consolidating all professional decisions under their spouse. It was an archaic rule, almost never invoked, designed for a time when actresses were truly commodities. But it was there. And the municipal bureau was right next door. Her eyes scanned the small, sparsely populated waiting room visible through the open double doors of the memorial hall. A handful of ordinary citizens, their faces etched with the mundane concerns of tax forms and permit applications. Then she saw him. A man, quiet and unassuming, slumped on a plastic chair. His dark, threadbare coat seemed to absorb the ambient light, his posture conveying a profound weariness. He clutched a worn satchel, his gaze fixed on a faded poster advertising municipal services. He was anonymous, unremarkable, perfect. Without a word, Ozanira strode past Cengiz, leaving him mid-smirk. He sputtered, bewildered. “Ozanira! Where are you going? We’re talking business!” She ignored him, pushing through the doors into the sterile, fluorescent-lit record hall. The man looked up, startled, as her shadow fell over him. He had kind, tired eyes, framed by short, dark hair. A faint scar bisected his left eyebrow. He smelled faintly of rain and old paper. “You,” Ozanira stated, her voice sharp, cutting through the silence. “Marry me.” The man lifted his brows fractionally. He didn’t flinch, didn’t gasp, merely processed. “Pardon?” His voice was a low murmur, surprisingly pleasant. Cengiz, now recovered from his shock, burst into the hall, Leyla trailing behind. “Ozanira, what is this charade? Who is this… pauper?” Ozanira ignored Cengiz, her gaze locked on the man. “My name is Ozanira Kadir. I need a husband. Now. For legal purposes. It’s a transaction. I will pay you handsomely.” She paused, then added, “Your name?” The man’s lips curved almost imperceptibly. “Revin. Revin Altay.” He looked past Ozanira, towards the memorial hall, his eyes lingering for a moment on a distant, barely visible rooftop across the cityscape. A subtle, almost imperceptible tilt of his head. Then he turned back to Ozanira. “Pay me… handsomely?” “Enough to change your life,” Ozanira promised, her voice firm. She saw the flash of calculation in his eyes, the subtle shift in his posture. He wasn’t as meek as he appeared, but he was playing the part. “Very well, Ms. Kadir,” Revin said, pushing himself to his feet. His height surprised her; he was taller than she’d initially perceived. “Lead the way.” Cengiz roared, “This is insane! Ozanira, you can’t! Vardar Studios will sue you into oblivion!” Ozanira turned, a triumphant, icy smile gracing her lips. “Go ahead, Cengiz. File your lawsuit. But as of this moment, my career decisions are no longer mine alone. They belong to my husband, Revin Altay. And I doubt he’ll be keen on signing a five-year lock with the man who just publicly humiliated his wife.” The marriage certificate was processed with astonishing speed, driven by the clerk's notorious compliance when greased with upfront cash. Ozanira’s signature was bold, Revin’s surprisingly elegant for a man she assumed was a laborer. He wore the role of the doting, bewildered commoner perfectly, his hand lightly brushing her arm as they exited, a silent signal of their new, fragile alliance. She led him, not to a grand home, but to her cramped, functional apartment in the artist’s quarter, a stark product of her blacklisted status. The single room smelled of old scripts and instant coffee. “Sit,” she commanded, gesturing to a worn armchair. “We need to draft a contract. A real one.” Revin settled, his gaze sweeping the room, taking in every detail with an unnerving thoroughness. He still held the satchel. “A contract for our… arrangement?” “Precisely. This marriage is a business deal, Mr. Altay. You provide the legal shield, I provide the financial security. There will be terms, clauses. No emotional attachments, no interference in my career unless explicitly agreed upon. And a substantial exit clause for when this charade is no longer necessary.” She pulled out a stack of legal pads and a pen. “I’ll start drafting. You can read it over, add your own conditions. Within reason.” Ozanira turned to her small desk, her back to Revin, already outlining the framework in her mind. Her pen scratched against the paper, the only sound in the apartment. She was so focused on disentangling herself from Cengiz’s web, so intent on her tactical victory, that she missed the almost imperceptible smile that touched Revin’s lips. She didn’t see him pull a sleek, burner phone from his satchel, its screen dark, nor did she witness the subtle gesture he made with his left hand, a quick, almost invisible movement of his index finger towards the window. On a distant rooftop, a figure in dark clothing, who had been lowering a long-barreled object, paused, then slowly, deliberately, retracted the item. The target had been secured. Ozanira looked up, needing a specific date from Revin. “What’s your birthda—” Her voice died as she saw him. He was no longer looking at her. He held the pen she’d given him, poised over the fresh stack of paper, his eyes fixed on the burner phone in his other hand. It buzzed once, a silent vibration. A single message glowed on the screen. *STATUS UPDATE: K.C.G. Vardar Studio acquisition complete. Crown Prince’s proxy confirmed.*

The Civic Registry Alibi