The snowflakes passing through the beams of light looked magnificent. Was this a recital of nature, or was it what a melancholic man wanted to see? It was very strange, as it never snowed at this time of year. Today, God is crying with the snow!...
Let me tell you why I gathered you here. Today, I experienced an event that was both good and bad for me. You know the Storm Salad place... You don't? Well, that's going to complicate things a bit. Let me start from the beginning.
My name is Hakan Zahir. No, Zahir is not my middle name, it's my surname. I've been killing people for money for seventeen years, and I'm twenty-two years old. Yes, yes, since I was five... When I was little, my foster mother stepped on my toy truck and fell off the balcony. And who put that truck there? Of course, I did! I wanted to eat solid food. I was five years old and still breastfeeding, it was not going to work. Even though I did my first job for free, I did a pretty good job.
Anyway, I'm digressing. I've been doing this for about two years, not seventeen. Storm Salad is just one of the gathering places for hired killers. It has a more Western atmosphere compared to other places: a door like in cowboy bars, an endless counter, a constant hum, and a background of old Turkish music.
It's a place where you don't need any conditions to join, and there are no requirements to leave either. If you're not good at it, you'll die. Now you're asking, "Hey Hakan Zahir, how did you manage, how did you survive?" Even though it doesn't seem like it, we have our own talents too. Strategy comes first among them.
This place has its own jargon. If someone asks you to kill someone, they say, "There's a chicken order." And we ask, "Rare, medium, or well-done?" Well-done means death by gun; medium means death by knife; rare means the slowest death, which is poison...
Of course, there may be customer-specific requests for the type of death. Sometimes the customer even considers showing themselves to the victim at the last moment. At the same time, the customer must increase their payment based on the type of death, the accessibility of the victim, and their importance to humanity. Killing a prime minister is not the same amount of money as killing a simple shopkeeper. Putting a bomb in a birthday cake is not the same amount of money as shooting someone directly in the head.
In addition to Storm Salad, there are three other places in the city. They are not enemies, but we can't say that there is no small competition between them. The most talented killer in each place is called the "Primus." Can we say that there are four Primus since there are four places in the city? It would be nice if we could say that, but there is a killer whom even some Primus tremble at the mention of, Kanunsuz. He is not affiliated with any place. That's why some still don't consider him a Primus.
Since I've already briefly described the places and the nature of my work, let me share with you what happened to me today. I went into Storm Salad Bar around 8 pm. It was so crowded that you couldn't even drop a needle on the floor. Two people were trying to sit on one stool at the bar. Despite the huge crowd, someone was shining like a star. Even in the brightest light, he stood out, dancing gracefully with his hair swaying in the air. Though he seemed warm as the sun in my eyes, he was actually very cold. I had never seen him talk to anyone other than customers and Beton Necmi. He was the top man at our place. He always got the biggest jobs. Some of us, including myself, were scared of the Kanunsuz gang at night, so we tried to do our jobs faster. But he wasn't afraid. Some people called him "Nightmare" in dark nights. I prefer his name, "Yağmur". He was almost as tall as me. With his dark skin and black hair down to his shoulders, he exuded a scary aura. But his cherry lips gave you a little respite from that horror.
While I was telling you these things, I remembered how I unconsciously glided towards him. You know, like in movies when there's a divine voice and your feet lift off the ground. What was this feeling I had? Love, black love?
A phone rang, and he suddenly got up and walked away. My bad luck, my blind fate...I was so sure he would talk to me this time.
"How many disappointments is this for you, Hakan?" said Beton Necmi, standing at the bar. He was the only man Yağmur had spoken to earlier. I stopped and sat on the stool in front of me. I took the strawberry milk he had poured for me in my hand.
Beton Necmi was the oldest killer among us, but he was retired now. His beard covered his face from just below his eyes to five centimeters below his chin. His hair was sparse but long. Even if he tied it into a ponytail, his bald spot would show. His hair and beard were a mix of gray and white. His name came from the hardness of his fists. According to what he told us, he once broke a man's skull with just his fists. That's an amazing strength, you need about 230 kg of force to break a skull. That's why I try to get along with Beton Necmi.
"I said, 'Even if I fail on my eight millionth attempt, I would perform my eight millionth and first attempt, Necmi ' He chuckled beneath his mustache at first and then refilled his strawberry milk. Our short laughter was interrupted as Concrete suddenly became serious and placed an envelope in front of me. I looked at the envelope made of yellow straw paper and met Necmi's eyes. He gestured to take the envelope with his eyes, and I took it and examined it. This envelope was specifically meant for Necmi. I opened the envelope and took out its contents; there was an open check inside. This indicated that the requested job was very important. If someone needs to be eliminated, then this was a job that must be paid with this open check.
"He wants her dead, Hakan," he said, pointing to Yağmur. "I did not give you this check for acceptance. I gave it to you to protect her. You know the rule that members of Fırtına Salatası are responsible for each other. I made this rule when my closest friend died. They do not like Yağmur here, so some may even want to kill her for this check. Only you can volunteer to protect her."
The rule Necmi mentioned was the toughest rule of the place. If someone was after Yağmur, only I could protect her. Or die trying. I drank the strawberry milk he poured and handed back the envelope. "I'm in."