That was the second wound: the realization that revenge does not heal—it just makes the wound deeper. At nineteen, Kahraman fled to Istanbul. He took a room in Tarlabaşı, a neighborhood of cracked sidewalks and louder hopes. By day, he worked in a spice market, carrying sacks of pul biber and sumac for a toothless merchant named Emin Amca . By night, he fought in illegal underground matches in the basement of a derelict cinema in Beyoğlu.
Yes. That Derya.
Kahraman had a choice: vengeance or love. The old Yarali would have killed Nihad Korhan with his bare hands, then let the guilt eat him alive. But the man sitting across from Derya—the man with stitches she had sewn—realized something terrible and beautiful.