When Emrah returned home, night had already swallowed the estate whole. The halls were silent, the kind of silence that pressed against the ears instead of soothing them. He didn't stop to think. Didn't eat. Didn't speak.
He went straight to bed.
The moment his head touched the pillow, exhaustion claimed him—deeper than sleep, heavier than anything he had felt before. As his eyes closed, a thought surfaced, slow and fogged.
System…
"Why am I tired?" he asked quietly. "I already have two Weapons of Infinity. Why am I not healed yet?"
There was a pause. Longer than usual.
Then the system replied, its tone precise, almost careful.
"Because Subject Infinity has met the requirements—but has not consented."
Emrah frowned weakly. "Consented… to what?"
"Activation of passive protocols," the system said.
"Immortality."
"Absolute Immunity."
"Biological Rewrite."
A chill ran through him despite the warmth of the room.
"…Do you wish to activate the immortality and immunity passives?" the system asked.
Emrah didn't hesitate.
"Yes."
The word barely left his lips before the world went dark.
When he woke, voices were everywhere.
Urgent. Low. Fractured.
His vision was blurry at first—shapes instead of faces, light bleeding at the edges. Then focus slowly returned.
His mother was closest to him, gripping his hand so tightly her knuckles had turned white. His father stood near the foot of the bed, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on Emrah's chest as if willing it to rise faster. His brother hovered nearby, trying—and failing—to look calm.
And beside the bed stood the family doctor.
The room smelled faintly of antiseptic.
"Emrah?" his mother whispered, her voice breaking the moment his eyes fully opened. "Can you hear me?"
He blinked once.
"I'm here," he said hoarsely.
Relief hit the room all at once.
His mother let out a sob she'd been holding back. His father exhaled slowly, as if releasing an hour's worth of tension in a single breath.
The doctor leaned forward immediately, checking his pulse, his eyes narrowing in confusion.
"You scared everyone," the doctor said carefully. "You were unresponsive for nearly an hour."
An hour?
"We couldn't wake you," his brother added. "Your heart rate was… slow. Too slow."
The doctor nodded. "Dangerously low. If this were anyone else—"
He stopped himself, frowning at the monitor.
"And yet," the doctor continued, "there was no organ failure. No neurological distress. No oxygen deprivation. Nothing that explains it."
Emrah lay still, listening.
Inside his mind, the system spoke again—quiet, almost reverent.
"Passive activation complete."
"Immortality: Active."
"Immunity: Active."
"Biological rewrite successful."
The doctor checked his pulse again, disbelief flickering across his face.
"…Your vitals are perfect," he muttered. "Better than perfect."
Emrah met his mother's worried eyes and gave her a faint, reassuring smile.
"I think," he said calmly, "I just slept deeper than usual."
No one laughed.
Because somehow—
they all knew that wasn't the truth.
And deep inside Emrah, beneath the calm surface, something ancient and unyielding had finished waking up.
The doctor stared at the tablet in his hands for a long moment, scrolling back, checking readings again as if expecting them to change out of spite.
Then he looked up.
"…This doesn't make sense," he said quietly.
The room froze.
"What do you mean?" Emrah's mother asked, fear creeping back into her voice.
The doctor swallowed. "The lesions are gone. All of them." He turned the screen so they could see. "There's no neurological damage. No inflammation. No markers. His nervous system is… clean."
Silence hit harder than any shout.
"That's impossible," his father said flatly.
"It should be," the doctor agreed. "Multiple sclerosis doesn't just reverse itself. Not like this. Not overnight." He hesitated, then said the words that shattered the room's remaining doubt.
"He is completely healed."
Emrah's mother covered her mouth. His brother stared as if seeing him for the first time. Even his father—who had faced wars, betrayals, and death threats without blinking—looked shaken.
Emrah said nothing.
Inside, the system remained silent, as if this outcome required no commentary.
Before anyone could speak again, the door opened sharply.
One of their men stepped in, breath controlled but urgency clear in his posture.
"Sir," he said to Emrah's father, then glanced briefly at Emrah before continuing. "It's confirmed. Word of the alliance is out."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
"How far?" his father asked.
"City-wide," the man replied. "And spreading. Rival groups are already mobilizing. Meetings. Emergency funding. Weapons moving."
A pause.
"They're not testing anymore," he added. "They're preparing."
Emrah slowly sat up in bed.
He didn't know it yet—but the peace he had felt was already an illusion.
Since the day of their alliance, whispers had turned into headlines.
The news of the newly formalized alliance between the Aybeyli, Saygın, and Haznedar families spread faster than anyone could have anticipated.
Rival factions—once content with minor skirmishes and careful manipulation—now faced a consolidated front.
An unshakable force that threatened their dominion.
Across the city, in shadowed rooms and quiet offices, rival leaders scowled at the reports. Hands tightened around papers, phones, and weapons alike. The balance of power had shifted—and none were pleased.
For Emrah, the message was unmistakable.
The fragile peace he had fought to secure was already under threat.
What he had envisioned as a life of calm—of control without exposure—now felt dangerously naïve.
And as the city stirred with unease, one truth settled heavily on his shoulders:
The next moves wouldn't be made by him.
They would be made against him.
Emrah moved before anyone could stop him.
He swung his legs off the bed and stood—fully, steadily. No tremor. No hesitation.
"Thank you, doctor," he said calmly. "You can leave now."
The family physician hesitated, clearly wanting to ask questions that had no answers, but one look at Emrah's eyes stopped him. He nodded, gathered his bag, and exited quickly.
Emrah turned to one of the men stationed near the door.
"Prepare everyone," he said. His voice was quiet, but it carried weight. "Not loudly. Not visibly. Prepare for the war that's coming."
The man stiffened. "Understood." He left at once.
The door closed.
Only family remained.
Emrah sat back down on the edge of his bed, the silence suddenly heavy. Inside his mind, he spoke.
System. Can I reveal the truth to them?
The answer came instantly.
"Negative. Revelation at this stage will destabilize causality."
"Outcome probability: unfavorable."
"You will know when the time comes."
Emrah exhaled slowly.
He looked up at his parents, at the fear and confusion written clearly across their faces, and softened his voice.
"I don't know what happened to me," he said. "Maybe it's God. Maybe it's something else." A pause. Carefully measured. "But I wanted a normal life. I still do."
They listened. No one interrupted.
"So I'm asking you," Emrah continued, "don't tell anyone what you saw today. Not our allies. Not our most trusted men. No one."
His mother opened her mouth, then closed it again.
"There's more," Emrah said.
He straightened slightly, his gaze sharpening—not weak, not uncertain.
"I want you to spread a rumor."
His father frowned. "What kind of rumor?"
"That the Aybeyli family's eldest hidden son is returning soon."
The room went still.
"I'll pretend to have a twin," Emrah said evenly. "From now on."
His mother's breath caught. "A… twin?"
"Yes," Emrah replied. "If people see me walking, standing, healed—they won't question a twin. They'll question miracles. And miracles attract the wrong kind of attention."
His father studied him closely now.
"I want real paperwork," Emrah added. "Birth records. Education history. Overseas presence. Photos. Digital trails. Not a disguise—an existence."
The hesitation was clear on his parents' faces.
Then his father spoke.
"You already planned this," he said quietly.
Emrah didn't deny it.
There was something in his eyes—something steady, distant, patient. A look his father had seen only in men who thought ten moves ahead.
Slowly, he nodded. "Alright."
He exhaled. "If we're doing this… what's his name?"
Emrah didn't even pause.
"The most obvious choice," he said. "Emre."
A faint smile touched his lips.
"If I ever had a twin brother," Emrah continued, "you would've named him Emre."
His father looked away for a moment, then nodded once more.
"Then welcome home," he said quietly, "Emre Aybeyli."
Somewhere beyond the walls of the estate, plans were already being made against him.
And inside Emrah—inside Emre—a long game had just begun.