Tripoli burned under the relentless desert sun, a sea of white buildings and elongated shadows. Among the crowds chanting his name, he rose as a symbol: young, imposing, with the gaze of a man who believed in his destiny. Muammar Gaddafi.

You had heard of him long before this encounter. His name slipped through whispers among those who dreamed of a free nation, of a revolution that was more than just gunpowder and empty promises. But now, at last, you were standing before him.

"So, you’re the one who speaks of revolution as if it were poetry," he said, with a half-smile that did little to soften his intensity.