FADE IN: INT. GRAND BAZAAR, ISTANBUL, DAWN First light cuts through the high arched windows. Long shadows lie across the empty stone corridors. The air hangs still, heavy with the ghost of yesterday's spices. Cinnamon. Cardamom. Dust motes float in the slanted beams. A single stall is lit by an oil lamp. YUSUF BIN AHMED (40s), precise, works at a polished wooden counter. Shelves behind him hold glass jars. Reds, yellows, browns. Yusuf arranges saffron threads on a black velvet cloth. He uses silver tweezers. Each crimson thread is placed with exacting care. A brass scale sits nearby, its copper weights gleaming. At a rough desk, CEM (20s), fumbles with a thick ledger. He knocks over a ceramic inkwell. Dark ink spills across the wood. Cem curses. He grabs a rag, smearing the ink into a larger, blurry stain. He flips the ledger pages back and forth. His fingers leave smudges. CEM So, the Aleppo ledger. It says fifty bales. We counted forty eight. Last night, after they unloaded. Forty eight. Yusuf does not look up. He selects another saffron thread with the tweezers. CEM The numbers are right here. In the book. Forty eight. The weight is probably off. A couple of bales were light, I could tell just by looking. Cem taps the open ledger. He looks from the book to Yusuf, waiting for a reaction. None comes. CEM 1