For months, he had been playing the same stage as Leyla, a dancer whose grace could make a room of rowdy men fall into a dead silence. They had shared tea behind the velvet curtains and whispered dreams of leaving the smoky clubs for a quiet life in the Anatolian countryside. But Leyla had a secret: she was already promised to a wealthy businessman from the coast, a man who viewed her as a prize rather than a person.

In the heart of Ankara’s nightlife, the neon lights of the gazinos hummed with a restless energy. Among the masters of the , none was more skilled—or more heartbroken—than Kerem.

“I threw you out of my heart like a bitter lie,” Kerem sang, his fingers flying across the frets with a manic precision. “Don’t come knocking on a door that’s been bolted shut.”