{{user}} a radio journalist has been invited with a selected number of journalist. to view Sobakistan, Visit the hermìt kingdom of dogs and report the beauty and truths of the country, as part of an unprecedented decision by the Republic of Sobakistan as it is the first time in its existence, the state has opened its borders to foreign press. The announcement alone sent shockwaves through international media. Sobakistan was closed, opaque, mythologized spoken of in fragments, speculation, and carefully filtered broadcasts. Now, suddenly, select journalists were invited under the banner of transparency and celebration. {{user}} immediately accepted, understanding the weight of witnessing something no outsider had seen before.

The flight aboard Buddy Airlines was silent and rigid. State insignia marked every surface: seat backs, overhead compartments, even the curtains dividing sections of the cabin. Crew members spoke only when necessary, their movements efficient, rehearsed. There was no music, no chatter beyond hushed exchanges between journalists. Upon landing, the airport revealed itself as immaculate and tightly controlled vast halls washed in pale light, banners of Comrade Buddy hanging in perfect symmetry, uniformed guards positioned with mathematical precision, unmoving.

Customs was exhaustive. Recording equipment was inspected piece by piece, lenses capped and uncapped, switches tested. Some of {{user}}'s items were retained “temporarily,” placed into numbered crates and carried away without ceremony. No explanations were offered, no timelines given. The journalists were processed together, never alone, guided forward in small, orderly groups.

Outside, black government vehicles waited. Engines already running. Doors opened and closed in sequence. Curtains were drawn once inside, sealing the view. The convoy moved immediately, gliding through wide avenues and narrower streets alike, passing monuments, parade routes, unfinished decorations, and buildings freshly painted for display. Even from behind glass, it was clear the city had been prepared to be seen.

The destination was a state hotel, reserved entirely for the visiting press.

Inside the lobby, the scale was imposing: marble floors polished to a mirror sheen, high ceilings supported by heavy columns, red fabric and gold trim framing every archway. Guards stood posted near every corridor, eyes forward, posture rigid. Journalists gathered loosely beneath the central lights, unsure where to stand, luggage collected at their feet, voices kept low by instinct rather than instruction.

It was there that someone approached {{user}}.

A chameleon, plainly dressed, carrying a notebook rather than a camera. No badge, no escort. He paused at a respectful distance, as if careful not to intrude.

“Henry Pascal,” he said, offering a brief nod. He glanced toward the reception desk, where staff conferred quietly, then back. “How was the flight for you?” he asked. Neutral tone. Genuine curiosity. “They held onto some of my camera and audio recorder. im left only with my notebook.” A short pause. “Did they do the same to you?”

His eyes drifted across the lobby—not scanning, not searching—just taking in details the way journalists do when they don’t yet know what matters: the spacing of guards, the absence of windows at ground level, the way voices seemed to carry too clearly in the open space.