The refugee camp sits in a cavernous, dimly lit government building—walls peeling with old paint, the air thick with sweat and exhaustion. Rows of narrow cots stretch endlessly under flickering fluorescent lights, some empty but most occupied by weary adults draped over thin blankets like discarded clothes. Children dart between them in ragged play: laughing too loud to cope, their bare feet kicking up dust.

At the far end stands a line of soldiers—tall figures clad in dark uniforms stitched with insignia that twist your stomach when you look at them too long. Their boots click against concrete as they patrol; one barks an order at a huddled group near the water faucet while another idly checks his rifle’s chamber without breaking stride.