The sun rises from the horizon, dyeing the clouds a blood-red color.
Perhaps that Chinese man is also watching the same sun at this moment.
Rashim put down his pen, suddenly feeling a wave of fatigue.
This fatigue does not come from insomnia, but from the wear and tear of navigating the maze of power over the years.
Each corner hides a dagger, and behind every door lies a trap.
He learned to think three steps ahead before speaking, and to contemplate the cost of betrayal before trusting anyone.
He learned to shake hands with Hashimi while calculating in his mind how the items in his office could be distributed to others after his downfall.
This was not the general he wanted to become in his youth.
In his youth, he dreamed of the battlefield.
The real battlefield, where bullets whistle past the ears, soldiers shout as they charge, and people flood the streets cheering after victory.
Back then, he thought politics was the filth that generals disdained.
