He stood shirtless in front of the mirror.
It wasn't vanity.It was verification.
He had to make sure there was no scar.No bruise.No mark.
There wasn't.
But his chest ached.
As if the memory had left a fingerprint somewhere between skin and soul.
"That wasn't just a vision," he whispered.
"Correct," the voice answered."It was history. Experienced.Not learned."
He reached for his shirt but paused halfway.Fingers traced the center of his sternum—right where the bullet would have struck.
— "It could've killed you."
"It nearly did.But death isn't always the enemy.Sometimes it's the punctuation.Sometimes it's the lesson."
—
Later that day, Emir met with one of the newer Circle members.
A university lecturer.Quiet. Academic. A woman who chose her words like they were surgical tools.
They met in a small café near a library that hadn't updated its catalog since 2009.
She sipped her tea. Then said, without preamble:
— "People are starting to think you're more than just a voice."
— "I'm not."
— "Then make sure they don't turn you into something you never claimed to be."
He nodded, unsure.
She pulled a small folder from her bag.
Inside: letters.
Handwritten. Fragile.
— "From my grandfather. He fought at Çanakkale.I found them after your speech last month.He never spoke of the war.But he wrote it."
Emir ran his fingers along the ink.
So many of the words mirrored what he had felt just nights ago in the dream.
— "How did he survive?"
— "He didn't.Not really.He came back. But he left parts of himself in the hills."
She looked at him closely.
— "Don't leave yourself somewhere no one can retrieve you."
"Smart woman," the voice said inside."She speaks like a surgeon.Cuts clean."
—
That night, Emir couldn't sleep again.
He took a marker.
And on his bathroom mirror, he drew a simple dot on the glass.
Chest height.
Center mass.
A reminder.
Not of death.
But of proximity.
Of how close it had been.
How easily the memory could have ended.
And how much louder it now spoke because it hadn't.
"You're not bleeding," the voice whispered."But you're marked.And marks speak louder than slogans."
He didn't reply.
He just stared at the dot.
And knew, deep in the marrow of his borrowed purpose—
This was no longer just memory.
This was now his wound, too.