Street Dogs : False Gods

⚠️ Content Warning

This story contains scenes of graphic violence, psychological manipulation, religious symbolism, and mature themes including death, trauma, and moral corruption.

Every choice here has a price, and sometimes salvation is the cruelest punishment.

— Z. Özkan

The cold echoed through the empty house as my slow steps carried me forward, my eyes drifting across the space that once held my childhood… my memories… my anger… my joy. None of it remained now.

When I reached the door to my old room, my pace faltered. Faint, muffled sounds leaked through the wood. I froze beside the doorframe. The little boy inside me — the small, trembling Barlas — was terrified to look inside.

But when I did, the sight before me was this:

My father, a thick rope looped around his neck, dangling from the ceiling, barely balancing on his toes atop a chair.

His eyes locked on mine with a fear I had never seen in my 34 years. He thrashed and pleaded silently. The fear inside me slipped away, replaced by something colder — pity. The great Adil Ağca, flailing helplessly before me.

As I stepped further into the room, a flicker of hope lit up his red, airless face.

“Weren’t you late for this, father?” My voice came out hoarse.

He stared back at me, confused. All he cared about was survival. I knew he couldn’t answer — but I kept asking anyway.

“Shouldn’t you have done this… maybe twenty-five years ago? Before you shattered us all?”

His choked gasps grew harsher. His struggles more frantic.

“Does death wash away your sins now?”

I took another step closer.

“Does death forgive what you’ve done to us, father?”

The scream ripped from me before I realized it, my body moving without my permission. I kicked the chair out from beneath his feet with everything I had. A strange warmth spread through me as I watched him convulse. With every twitch, the rope tightened around his neck.

By the time his face turned from red to a sickly purple, I was standing directly in front of him. He looked at me with pure hatred.

“Your suffering in this world is over now, Adil Ağca,” I whispered. “We’ll settle this on the other side. Because I no longer have the strength to fight you here.”

I stood there, unmoving, until the last breath rattled out of him — until the silence swallowed the room.

I am Barlas.

The cowardly son of a prosecutor, the son of a lawyer.

The one who abandoned his siblings to their father’s conscience.

The one who couldn’t protect his mother.

The one whose life was destroyed by a woman.

I am Barlas Ağca.

And now, my hands are stained not only with the blood of killers and criminals…

…but with the blood of my own father.