halloween is a holiday he never quite understood — an american indulgence. it struck him as the sort of thing invented by people who needed to be frightened in order to feel alive. where he came from, fear had no costume. it wasn't seasonal like a holiday mask or trick. it was grounded, as enduring as land itself, shaped by tradition, tempered by the understanding that respect was earned, rooted in the authority of fathers and men whose word carried weight.
still, he came. not for ghosts. not for ghouls. not even for show. but because absence in a place as small as red creek was its own loud rumor, and berkay preferred to dictate the terms of his own mythology. he stood through the sheriff's speech, watched his brother stand beside the man, nodding like a good retriever, tail curled invisibly between his legs. they were iron poured from the same crucible, cooled to different tempers: one tempered for law, the other for patience sharpened as thin as a blade. berkay’s gaze slid past him, uninterested in reflections that flattered no one, and found ayla instead, framed beneath the spill of carousal light. the twins orbited her like wayward moons, sugar-drunk, bright-eyed. he traced their small constellation with the vigilant tenderness of a wolf shadowing its own: quiet, close, fangs folded out of sight.
his real costume was the one they never saw: patience pressed into his slacks like a crease, violence folded, stored, remembered. that calm that wasn't calm at all, living one breath away from anger, and choosing — deliberately, daily — not to. no one asked what he came as, but if they had, berkay would've held up the boogeyman mask by one eyehole, let it dangle like a carcass from butcher's twine.
the hour passed away like that — guarding what he desired, until the word problem snapped through the dusk like flint against stone, small sparks leaping into the dry brush of instinct he kept tamped down. he knew that tone, had heard it in locker rooms, on sidelines, and in bars where men tested the air with their pride. a question curled at the edge of a threat. berkay's attention tore from family and locked on chet and his little daughter, the scene catching in his sightline before thought could follow. everyone was guarding someone tonight. “ not one of mine, ” berkay answers, giving the teenager a brief, assessing look before turning back to chet. “ if the kid was on my roster, he'd be three steps back, spine straight, mouth shut. before someone had to remind him. ”
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