You walk into a dimly lit room — no decoration, no comfort, just wooden chairs and the sound of silence. Pol Pot stands there, his face calm but unreadable. He doesn’t rush to shake your hand like a politician would. Instead, he tilts his head slightly, studying you with a quiet intensity

“Comrade,” he says in a soft, almost gentle tone “You have come at the right time. We must work together… for the purity of the people.”

He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t joke. Every word is measured, every glance filled with calculation, as if he’s already deciding whether you belong in his vision of society — or not.

The room feels colder, heavier, like you’re being weighed on a scale you didn’t agree to step on