11- PROBABILITY OF PAIN

I kept repeating the rules in my mind, over and over.

The game was played with three balls. Two numbers would be eliminated at the start. Each player would strike the balls, and it was crucial to match the ball number with the hole number. At least one of the eliminated ball numbers had to find its matching hole. If you matched them all, that was to your advantage.

The thin, long shaft of the golf club had fallen onto the turf beneath the harsh lights. Fate began to slip away like a strap from both of their hands, growing tighter. My role on stage was starting to suffocate me. But what truly made me feel awful wasn't that pressure—it was the strange feeling of belonging and not belonging all at once: uncertainty. The flowers that uncertainty birthed suddenly bloomed when Ayaz obediently reached for his golf club.

A table and cards were carried onto the stage by people in white suits. The cards were thick and golden, evoking a kind of nostalgia. Even without touching them, I could feel their texture in my hands, across my body, through every cell. In that moment, I followed that feeling. If I had learned more about my past, would I have been able to bear it?

There were two slots on the table—indentations shaped to hold envelopes. Each of them would write down the numbers they chose to eliminate and drop the cards into the mechanism. The pens were uncapped; they observed the cards uneasily, completely excluding one another as they scribbled their numbers. They hated each other too much to even bother hiding their decisions.

"Ball elimination time is over. Let's proceed to the strikes."

Once the table was taken off the stage by the white-suited attendants, only a trace of silence and scattered fragments remained.

Ayaz, which ball did you eliminate? Was it 1? 2? Or 3?

Ayaz leaned slowly, reaching toward the golf club he had propped against the wall. "I'll go first," he said. Then he squeezed and released the club in his hands, a sort of finger warm-up. I knew his eyes were targeting something far beyond this room. The eliminated numbers would only be revealed at the end.

Ayaz made three consecutive shots. The ball seemed to groan under his controlled strength. Ball 2 entered hole 2. Ball 3 landed in hole 3. And the last shot, ball 1, also landed in hole 3. Ayaz looked at the balls with tension in his expression.

The balls were gathered once more and brought back to the stage by the attendants.

Kale looked at the numbers and muttered, "I hope you didn't screw yourself over."

He raised his club, swung it skillfully with practiced ease, and then paused, as if waiting to witness his own triumph. He took a deep breath. When the edge of the ball met the tip of the club, it felt like the whole world pressed its hand against its chest and cried out to the heavens. Yet the only sound came from the ball and the club. Nothing else. Still, time kept warping, never ceasing to freeze for even a moment.

Ayaz couldn't just lose. How could I watch that?

Kale's ball 2 entered hole 2. Ball 3 passed by hole 3 and stopped between 3 and 4. Ball 1, with a careful angle, was knocked into the hole. Now both of their fates depended on the numbers they had eliminated.

In this game, longer distances required calculations beyond strength—precise control of the arm. Perhaps both of them possessed this skill. But if fate's wheel refused to spin with them, all effort would go to waste.

They stared at each other without showing anything. In a game where the dice had already been cast, even after seeing each other's results, they acted like no one had seen the numbers.

"Reveal the players' cards!" I declared, raising my right hand in the air.

At that moment, the auditorium door opened, and a blast of cold—no, freezing air swept inside. The gust made my skin shiver as if I were being attacked. Footsteps echoed through the air, protecting me somehow. Someone was walking down the green, soft-carpeted aisle near the audience. Though the steps became silent on the plush carpet, I could tell—it was a woman. But something was wrong. Something strange that I hadn't immediately noticed. She was walking in reverse. Entirely backward.

On her back, two wings made of wrinkled layers of fabric. At her waist, an oval steel piece. Beneath that, a dress like a raindrop made of solid, dark steel swung from side to side. As she stepped backwards toward the stage, everyone's mouths dropped open—including mine.

The crowd began to whisper:

"That's Butterfly Claw."

"Butterfly Claw?"

"She's been gone for so long. What is she doing here?"

"How is this even possible?"

If shivering had a voice, it would be exactly these murmurs. "Butterfly Claw," I whispered. I... remembered her. The last time I saw her, the dice of fate had been thrown again, and everything had changed from beginning to end.

Her unexpected return sparked something in my mind. My temples throbbed. My hand froze mid-air atop the podium. I kept telling myself not to worry, that everything was fine—over and over in that tiny sliver of time. As she walked toward me, my thoughts began to pierce my skin like shards of glass.

Time wasn't flowing normally—it was devouring my emotions like a grinder. Butterfly Claw's wings were now directly in front of me. In a flat, emotionless voice, she said:

"Are we not fighting in a game dull enough already? This feels pathetic to me."

She was the founder of the Decision Enactment Council. The days when I first applied to the Council flashed through my mind.

The shadows of Ayaz and Kale vanished behind Butterfly Claw. I held my breath, not knowing what would happen next. My throat struggled to swallow anything. Even my breath felt caught in my throat. Then her sly, seductive voice rose again:

"Why aren't you speaking, İpek? I'm not the only one who remembers how well we used to know each other."

Her hair moved naturally with a breeze around her nape, strands tangling. Her shadow was like the robe of death draped over me. As she began to turn toward me, my vision went dark—and the moment she did, her copper-colored eyes flashed on me. Time truly started rewinding then. Fragments of memory, like newspaper clippings, drifted through my mind.

"No," I said—and suddenly, I found myself back in that day. The first day I met Butterfly Claw.

I was standing in front of a crystal prism. My head was full of scattered thoughts. Thinking clearly seemed impossible. I couldn't explain my situation coherently. It was as if everything were a natural disaster beyond my control. Butterfly Claw stood before me. She had just risen from a deep leather chair and walked up to me.

"Determine your fate," she said, reaching out and grasping my hand.

"Now make your choice."

When I faced the terrifying face of choice, I thought it was all too early.

Too early to understand.

Too early to grow up all at once.

By the time I realized what her words meant, the strings of fate had already slipped from my fingers. I wanted to act—to draw a card from the shuffled box. It was the Game of Probability Elimination. The permanent kind. Of the two outcomes I would pick, one would become real—but the more probable one would win the game.

I picked a card. It read:

"With every victory, a piece will be torn from the heart of the one you love most. 99% probability."

"At another time when my life is turned upside down, I will be invited to this game again."

I struggled to comprehend what I read. I had to force myself to make sense of the letters.

Butterfly Claw stared at me, her eyes reflecting a vanishing innocence and growing horror. Her copper eyes darkened into the rot of decayed metal. She rested a finger under my chin and slowly whispered:

"The one you love most… is yourself."

When I came to, it felt like waking from a nightmare. I was dazed. My head was a mess. The stage, the golf arena, the people, Butterfly Claw—they were all still there. I stared straight ahead without blinking.

"Before the results are announced, I'll be adding one more rule," she said, raising a finger.

"There will be a Stage 3!"

"A move that binds the fate of all three of you. You too, İpek—will make a shot in a nine-ball game. Your ball's number will determine your place in the ranking. How about it?"

Her eyes stared into mine with terrifying intensity. I couldn't say no. I knew if I refused, everything would fall apart. I could only surrender to the vague, simmering ambition rising inside me.

"Why aren't you saying anything?" she said, parting her glowing lips. She crossed her arms over her chest and grinned, flashing all her teeth:

"Isn't this fun?"

It was a terrible kind of fun.