Page 41 of Baran
“Thanks.” Darien handed the clerk the hundred-dollar bill and left.
He reached the corner, paused, and waited for the arrow to turn green before stepping onto the crosswalk. The streets were eerily quiet, with only a few cars gliding by. The faint sound of footsteps echoed along the sidewalk as a couple of people leisurely strolled past. The air was crisp and carried a faint scent of exhaust from the passing vehicles. The scene felt strangely empty, as if the city held its breath in anticipation. The hotel across the street didn’t have a registration for Baran. Exhausted and disappointed, he continued his search. He should have driven here instead of taking the subway. He hadn’t been in his right mind.
Darien had been walking the streets of Brooklyn for hours or so it seemed, the soles of his shoes grinding against the cracked pavement, and the city’s hum a constant presence in his ears. He could feel the weight of the search pulling at him—Baran Aslan. Something inside him drove him forward, a gnawing feeling that Baran was close, just out of reach.
He had already checked into another two hotels, with no luck. Both clerks had given him the same blank look when he’d asked about Baran, but Darien was relentless. He knew Baran was here somewhere. He could feel it.
At yet another hotel, a dilapidated building with a neon sign flickering above the entrance, Darien pushed through the glass doors, the stale air inside greeting him with a musty chill. He approached the front desk where a tired-eyed woman satbehind a small cluttered counter, her face half-hidden by the glow of a computer screen. She didn’t look up at first.
“Excuse me,” Darien said, his voice quiet but firm.
The woman blinked, startled out of her daze. She glanced up, her gaze skimming over him, taking in his tuxedo, the shadows under his eyes. She didn’t ask him to wait or give him just a cursory glance. Instead, she sighed. “You need a room?”
“No,” Darien answered, sliding a few bills across the counter. “I’m looking for someone. Baran Aslan. Is he staying here?”
She didn’t touch the money at first, just stared at the cash for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Darien watched her carefully, willing her to give him something—anything.
“Name doesn’t ring a bell,” she muttered, her tone flat. “I’d have to check the register.”
Darien’s pulse quickened, but he kept his expression neutral. He leaned in a little closer, lowering his voice. “Look,” he said, his fingers tapping the edge of the counter. “I know he’s here. Just…think hard. Please.”
For a long second, it seemed like she might refuse, but then she sighed and pushed herself to her feet. She shuffled toward a back office without a word. Darien remained by the counter, his eyes darting around the lobby. The place looked abandoned, like no one had bothered to care for it in years. The floors were stained, and the walls bore peeling paint.
She came back moments later, holding a crumpled piece of paper. She looked down at it, squinted, then gave him a long, weary look. “Room 204. But you didn’t hear it from me.”
Darien gave her a sharp nod, the smallest of smiles tugging at the corner of his lips. He slid the money closer to her. “Thanks.”
She said nothing as she grabbed the bills, tucking them into the pocket of her faded uniform. Darien turned and headedtoward the stairs, his shoes echoing against the walls as he moved up to the second floor.
Room 204 was at the end of the hall, a faded number on the door that looked like it might fall off at any minute. Darien knocked once, then again, his fist louder this time.
Nothing.
He raised his hand to pound a third time but stopped when he heard footsteps coming from the other side.
Chapter Twenty
Baran
Baran groaned, his headheavy and his temples pounding as he stumbled out of bed. The cheap motel room was dim, lit only by the weak glow of a streetlamp seeping through the threadbare curtains. The pounding on the door had startled him awake, but it wasn’t the frantic rhythm of a stranger—it was someone determined, someone desperate.
As he reached the door, he paused, the muffled sound of labored breathing on the other side giving him pause. With a deep breath, he swung the door open.
Darien stood there, his face flushed, his chest heaving like he’d sprinted all the way from Manhattan. His tuxedo was wrinkled, his tie loosened and askew.
“Baran,” Darien breathed, his voice laced with urgency.
Baran’s stomach twisted. “What the hell are you doing here?” he snapped, gripping the edge of the door. His heart was racing, though whether from anger or something else, he couldn’t tell. How did this man find him? He barely knew where he was himself.
Darien winced, stepping inside before Baran could slam the door in his face. “We need to talk.”
Baran’s jaw clenched as he turned away, pacing the room. “You threatened my father and forced him to talk to me. Do you have any idea how fucked up that is?”
“I didn’t mean—” Darien began, but Baran spun on his heel, cutting him off.
“You didn’t mean? The one person who’s spent my entire life messing with my head, and you just—what? Thought forcing him to talk to me would help?” Baran’s voice cracked, and he hated himself for it. “I trusted you. I didn’t think you’d stoop that low.”
Darien’s shoulders slumped, his usual confidence crumbling under Baran’s glare. “I know I screwed up,” he whispered. “I thought—I thought if I could just make him listen, make him stop getting in your way, you’d finally be free of all that…pain.”
