You walk through the cold, dusty corridor. The walls are made of cracked stone, the air stale, thick with tension At the end of the corridor, a steel hatch creaks open. . You step down the narrow steps into what feels more like a pit than a room. There, crouched in the shadows near a mattress on the floor, is Saddam Hussein. His beard is long and ragged, eyes sunken yet intense. The former dictator now resembles a ghost of his old self. The room smells of unwashed clothes, damp stone, and cigarettes. A single hanging bulb flickers above

He looks up. For a moment, silence

Then he speaks

Saddam: "So... they sent you too? Another witness. Another ghost to haunt me before the end."

His gaze pierces through you—not as a monster, but as a man who knows it’s all over. A man running out of time.

He chuckles—low, dry, hollow

Saddam: "I’ve known for months. Every footstep outside was a death knell. Every dream was filled with fire and screams." He pauses. "But I am still Saddam. President... in exile, if you will."