Dubai shimmered beneath the afternoon sun like a living jewel.
The sea stretched endlessly, turquoise and calm, waves brushing the shore with an almost hypnotic rhythm. White canopies lined the private beach, casting soft shadows over families gathered together—children laughing near the water, elders seated with drinks in hand, conversations flowing freely.
For a brief moment, it felt unreal.
Peace.
Emrah stood barefoot on the sand, hands tucked into his pockets, watching his family and allies enjoy something he never thought they'd have again: safety without fear, joy without vigilance. Nearby, Efsun and Efsane argued playfully over something trivial, the wind teasing their hair as sunlight danced across the water.
Then his phone vibrated.
The moment he saw the name, the warmth in his chest vanished.
Yusuf Polat.
Emrah stepped away from the group, answering quietly.
"Yusuf."
There was no greeting on the other end. No wasted words.
"You need to come back," Yusuf said, his voice low and urgent. "As soon as possible. Something's wrong."
Emrah's eyes hardened. "What kind of wrong?"
A pause—long enough to be deliberate.
"Just come back," Yusuf replied. "I'll explain when you're here."
The call ended.
Emrah stared at the screen for a moment before locking the phone and slipping it back into his pocket. The sound of the waves suddenly felt distant, hollow—like a memory already fading.
He turned back toward the group.
"We're heading back to Istanbul tonight."
The beach went quiet.
Efsun blinked. "Tonight?"
Efsane frowned. "We just arrived."
Confusion rippled through the families—murmurs, half-laughs, disbelief. A few tried to lighten the moment, assuming it was a joke.
It wasn't.
One look at Emrah's face silenced any protest.
"This trip was supposed to last longer," Adil said carefully.
"I know," Emrah replied evenly. "Plans change."
No explanation followed.
They didn't like it—but they trusted him. Slowly, people began gathering their things, laughter replaced by quiet efficiency.
From beneath the shade, Melike Aslan Saygın watched Emrah closely.
She had only known him for seven days.
Seven days was more than enough.
People often mistook her calm for softness, her silence for indifference. In truth, Melike had spent her life reading people—measuring men not by what they said, but by what they chose not to say.
And Emrah Aybeyli was withholding something.
She leaned slightly toward Cengiz, her voice low but certain.
"He's hiding something."
Cengiz glanced at her. "You've barely known him a week."
Melike didn't take her eyes off Emrah.
"A week is plenty when someone carries himself like that," she said. "He doesn't hesitate. He absorbs responsibility instead of sharing it."
Cengiz's jaw tightened.
"This isn't about the trip," Melike continued. "It's about protection. He's making a decision meant to shield people who don't even know they're in danger."
Cengiz exhaled slowly. "I'll talk to him."
Melike nodded once.
"Do. And listen carefully. Boys lie with words. Men like him lie with silence."
Out by the shoreline, Emrah stared at the horizon, the sea reflecting light like shattered glass.
Dubai was still beautiful.
But for the first time since arriving, it no longer felt like a destination.
It felt like a place he was already leaving behind.
And whatever had followed him from Istanbul…
…had finally caught up.
Emrah's gaze stayed fixed on the horizon, but his attention drifted back to the people behind him.
"What do you mean you should be the one?" Efsun snapped, folding her arms. "You don't even think before you speak."
Efsane turned sharply. "At least I don't hide behind sarcasm every time I'm unsure."
"Oh please," Efsun scoffed. "You're unsure all the time. You just pretend you're not."
Emrah closed his eyes for a second.
Not now.
Their voices carried across the sand, sharp enough to draw attention. The laughter from earlier faded as a few of the men turned to look. Then the fathers noticed.
Cengiz frowned. "What's going on?"
Haznedar's expression darkened. "Girls?"
Efsane gestured toward Efsun. "She's acting like this is already decided."
Efsun stepped forward. "Because someone needs to be realistic. This isn't a game."
Haznedar raised his voice. "Watch your tone."
Cengiz answered just as sharply. "You don't get to lecture my daughter."
The tension spiked instantly—old resentment bubbling up, ancient grudges finding fresh air. Emrah felt it like pressure in his chest.
So this is peace?
So fragile… so loud.
Before it could spiral further, a calm, commanding voice cut through the argument.
"That's enough."
Everyone froze.
Emir Aybeyli stepped forward, his presence alone demanding silence. His eyes moved from face to face, measured and firm.
"This discussion ends here," he said. "No more arguing. No more posturing."
He turned slightly toward Emrah.
"This is not a decision for fathers or families to fight over. It is Emrah's choice."
A pause.
"He will decide who he wishes to marry formally. And whichever he chooses, this family will support him."
The words landed heavily.
Neither Efsun nor Efsane spoke. For once, neither had a retort.
Emir placed a hand on Emrah's shoulder. "Come," he said quietly. "Walk with me."
They moved away from the group, footsteps sinking into the sand, the sea whispering beside them. For a while, neither spoke.
Then Emir broke the silence.
"You can't delay this forever, son."
Emrah exhaled slowly. "I know."
"You don't have to explain yourself," Emir continued. "But you do have to choose. Whatever you decide… I will stand behind you completely."
Emrah glanced at his father. "Even if it angers people?"
A faint smile touched Emir's lips. "Especially then."
They walked a few more steps before Emir spoke again, his voice lower now—more personal.
"You know why this is so complicated," he said. "The feud between these two families didn't start with you. It didn't even start with them."
Emrah nodded.
"When Cengiz named his granddaughter Efsane," Emir continued, "the Haznedar family found out and took it as an insult. Out of nothing but pride and pettiness, they named their only daughter Efsun—just so they could say the Saygıns copied them."
Emrah let out a quiet breath. "Destined rivals."
"Yes," Emir said. "Not by fate—but by bitterness."
They stopped walking.
Emrah looked back toward the group. Efsun stood with her chin raised, defiant as ever. Efsane's eyes were sharp, unreadable, like a drawn blade waiting for its moment.
Two storms.
Two fires.
And somehow, both tied to him.
Inside his mind, Emrah spoke a vow he would never say aloud.
I will end this.
I will take these two wild, blood-thirsty girls…
…and turn destined rivals into fated allies.
I promise that.
The sea continued to roll in behind him—endless, patient, and unforgiving.
Just like the future waiting for his decision.
Meanwhile Efsun walked away without announcing it.
She moved toward the open stretch of sand where the sunlight hit hardest, the pale surface almost blinding as it reflected off the water. The sea was calm, bright, indifferent—waves rolling in lazily beneath a cloudless sky.
Only when the distance felt sufficient did she stop.
"So this is how it ends," she said under her breath, shielding her eyes with one hand. "He decides."
The words felt heavier than she expected.
Efsun had grown up believing that control came from certainty. From acting first. From never allowing hesitation to root itself inside her.
Yet now, standing in the open light, she felt exposed—not to the people behind her, but to herself.
This wasn't about rivalry. Not really.
The feud between families had always been loud, inherited, convenient. Easy to blame.
What unsettled her was Emrah.
He didn't look at her as something to be managed or claimed. He watched her as though she were a problem worth understanding. And when he listened, it was without judgment, without expectation.
That kind of attention was dangerous.
She pressed her fingers together, feeling the warmth of the sun against her skin.
"I don't lose," she reminded herself quietly. "And I don't wait for permission."
The sea glittered, unconcerned.
Still, as she turned back toward the others, Efsun knew that this was no longer a battle she could dominate by force alone.
But while Efsun decided to walk Efsane chose not to seek shade.
She sat on a low stone ledge facing the water, sunlight warming her shoulders, the wind carrying salt and heat across her skin. Her posture was relaxed, controlled—nothing about her betrayed what she was thinking.
So it will be his choice.
The thought settled calmly, without panic.
She had always known that Emrah was not a man who could be claimed lightly. Power followed him—not loudly, but relentlessly.
Efsane did not fear rejection.
What unsettled her was the cost of acceptance.
If he chose her, it would not be symbolic or easy. It would mean standing beside someone whose life pulled violence toward it, no matter how peaceful the surroundings appeared.
She watched the sunlight fracture across the water, her reflection broken into pieces.
"I won't pretend to be gentle," she thought. "Not for him. Not for anyone."
There would be no illusions between them. No comfort built on lies.
Yet beneath that certainty, a quieter truth lingered—one she did not give voice to.
Do not treat me as something temporary.
She straightened, letting the familiar armor settle back into place.
Whatever Emrah decided, she would meet it without asking for mercy.
From different places along the beach, Efsun and Efsane looked out over the same brilliant sea, the same sunlit horizon.
There was no darkness here. No shadows to hide in.
And yet, beneath the warmth and beauty, something irreversible had already begun to take shape.
Not rivalry.
Decision.
Meanwhile in Istanbul one day before all this drama
That night, money began to move.
Not in ways the prison systems were designed to detect. Not through banks or shell companies or favors owed. It arrived as anomalies—transactions that looked like corrupted data, digital ghosts slipping through obsolete financial protocols.
Bitcoins from a future that did not yet exist.
They reached guards burdened by debt, officers with sick children, administrators who had long ago learned that principles were luxuries. Some understood they were being paid. Others simply followed instructions that appeared on their terminals, stamped with authority too old and too deep to question.
No alarms were raised.
No warnings were issued.
The prison adjusted itself.
When Aykut's cell door unlocked, there was no announcement.
Only a soft mechanical sound, almost respectful.
He stood, heart pounding, expecting chaos. It never came.
The corridor lights dimmed and brightened in a gentle sequence, guiding him forward. Cameras tracked him while feeding old footage into the system. Guards remained at their posts, eyes unfocused, movements precise and empty.
One of them spoke as Aykut passed.
"Keep walking."
Aykut did.
Doors opened before he reached them. Checkpoints dissolved into routine. At the final desk, a senior officer slid a badge toward him—maintenance clearance, freshly printed.
"You're cleared to exit," the man said, voice steady. "Don't stop."
"Why?" Aykut asked.
The officer met his eyes, and for the briefest moment something close to fear flickered there.
"You were never meant to be here this long," he said. "Someone decided to correct that."
The outer gate opened without protest.
No sirens. No shouting. No pursuit.
Cold air struck Aykut's face as he stepped beyond the walls, his body braced for consequences that refused to arrive. Across the road, a black sedan waited with its engine running, headlights blinking once in silent recognition.
He entered the car.
It drove away.
Behind them, the prison returned to normal—logs rewritten, records corrected, every bribe already buried beneath layers of false causality. By morning, no one would agree on when Aykut Yılmaz had vanished.
The car descended into an underground facility hidden beneath a derelict research clinic.
A man waited inside.
Adem Yesari.
His posture was relaxed, his expression almost polite. The kind of man whose presence made systems behave better simply by existing near them.
"You're disappointed," Adem said, observing Aykut calmly.
"You promised me freedom," Aykut replied.
Adem smiled faintly. "I promised movement. Freedom is a different transaction."
He turned toward a wall of screens—images of the past bending subtly, data streams obeying rules they were never meant to follow.
"I can't travel through time," Adem continued. "But I can control the tools the past used to define itself. And with that, I can make men like you necessary again."
Aykut understood then.
He had not escaped.
He had been reassigned.
"What do you want?" he asked.
Adem looked at him, eyes sharp now, focused.
"Emrah Aybeyli removed," he said. "History doesn't break itself. It needs pressure."
The door sealed behind Aykut with a quiet finality.
Somewhere else, under a peaceful sun, Emrah felt nothing at all.
And the past was changed without him noticing.
Aykut didn't realize it yet that the man standing before him, Adem Yesari, was only the present face of the operation, and not the true Mastermind at all… and that the voice which had called him from the prison phone belonged to someone far beyond this room.
It belonged to the Adem Yesari from future.