"To bear the fruit of tragedy, one must first sow the seeds of hope."

  “It’s madness, Dr. Song.”

  A sharp voice burst from the radio.

  She didn't respond.

  Instead, with a hardened expression, she pressed the pedal of the old military jeep all the way down.

  The still, unsettling air of the battlefield brushed against her skin.

  Under the gray sky, black dust scattered like snow, and twisted building debris stood in rows like tombstones.

  As she neared the enemy line, soldiers who spotted her reckless approach raised their rifles in unison.

  The rifles clicked, the sound cutting through the silence.

  She stepped out of the jeep, holding a megaphone in one hand, and raised both hands.

  The soldiers kept their guns aimed, but bewilderment showed on their faces.

  One soldier reported to his superiors, waiting for the commander's orders.

  Even in the tense standoff, she read the expressions on their faces.

  'It’ll be fine.'

  Taking a deep breath, she slowly, carefully, raised the megaphone to her lips.

  “Testing, one, two,”

  SCREEEEEE—

  The sharp feedback echoed across the battlefield, making the soldiers' rifles waver.

  Song Joo-eun pulled the megaphone back slightly, then spoke again.

  “Can you hear me, Chazra? It's Song Joo-eun.”

  At the sound of her name, the soldiers aiming their rifles began to stir, ever so slightly.

  “You know who I am, right?”

  Countless people across the world knew her name.

  “I came because I want to talk.” In the tense air, a drop of sweat fell from a soldier's face to the ground.

  “Can we meet and talk face to face?”

  Her words ended, but nothing came back.

  A lone tumbleweed rolled between her and the soldiers, pushed by the wind.

  Song Joo-eun resolved to repeat her words until she got an answer.

  She had to meet Chazra today.

  The soldiers held their positions despite her repeated calls.

  Getting no response, she raised her voice even more.

  “Hey! Chazra! Chazra!”

  An even more grating sound than the first shrieked from the megaphone.

  “I was your father's friend!”

  If there was still no answer, she was ready to get back in the jeep and charge straight in.

  Just then, a high-ranking officer—unlike the ones guarding the entrance—stepped out.

  He signaled his subordinates with a nod.

  Only after receiving the officer's command did the soldiers lower their rifles.

  The officer, swallowing dryly, approached her with his men.

  “Follow me.”

  Once blindfolded, her other senses sharpened.

  She could sense others staring at her.

  After walking for what felt like a long time, the officer knocked on a door.

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  “Commander, we’ve brought her, as ordered.”

  A low voice came from behind the door.

  “Alright. Bring her in.”

  As the door opened, Song Joo-eun and the officer’s group entered the room.

  She was gently seated in a chair.

  When the blindfold was removed, the overhead lights stung her eyes.

  She blinked several times to adjust her focus and looked around.

  Behind the man, presumably the commander, hung a large Iraqi flag.

  Above it was a photo of Kassim Rashid, Iraq’s current prime minister.

  The man stood behind a desk with a large computer.

  She recognized him as Chazra.

  Her memory flashed back to a young Chazra with his father, Dr. Zahir Al-Muradi.

  His face was stern, reminiscent of his father, but with a stronger physique and an air of wounded purity.

  A trait inherited from his mother, she thought.

  “I heard you had something to say.”

  The man’s voice was ice.

  She read the pain buried deep within his gaze.

  Without realizing it, she tensed.

  “Are you afraid?”

  She clenched her fists, steeling her resolve.

  “Why did you want to see me?”

  She had to spark the curiosity still hidden in his words.

  “Hoping to persuade me using your ties to my father?”

  She had known it wouldn't be easy, but the force coming from his hard-line stance was overwhelming.

  I can't back down... Not like this.

  Suppressing her fear, she cleared her throat and began to speak.

  “I wanted to know your purpose.”

  “My purpose? Does that matter?”

  He leaned against the desk, his gaze piercing.

  She nodded silently.

  “It’s simple enough.”

  She focused all her senses, trying to read the emotion on his face.

  “My goal is one thing.”

  She had to grasp the hidden intent.

  “To return pain to the world—especially to America.”

  Chazra said, idly picking at his nails, his tone devoid of emotion.

  “At least for the years I suffered.”

  His deep-seated hatred was so palpable she could feel it on her skin.

  “Many people are suffering now."

  A faint smirk appeared on his lips.

  "I can't pretend to know the depths of your pain."

  He let out a sharp, nasal scoff, and with it, the darkness inside him seeped out, awakening a fear in her.

  His actions, as if she wasn't even there, made it all feel meaningless.

  But she couldn't give up.

  This was for the countless lives she could save.

  "But no matter how great that pain is, you can't inflict it on others." Her mouth went dry.

  "Won't you remember the people who loved you?"

  She believed she had to persuade his heart, not his logic.

  He straightened up from the desk and slowly walked toward her. He leaned in, their eyes meeting.

  His eyes, cold as ice, pierced her.

  She had hoped to see the child he once was.

  She had been wrong.

  Deep inside him were scars from years she could never know, seared into his very being.

  “I said I especially want to hurt America, didn’t I?”

  He emphasized the word America.

  “What is America’s pain now?”

  'This isn't a question. It's a display of dominance.'

  “A few soldiers dying?”

  'I can't let him push me over.'

  His voice began to rise.

  “Losing global influence?”

  'I can't miss a single micro-expression.'

  “Its mainland is still untouched, isn't it?”

  She did not miss the momentary distortion on his face.

  “The other countries? Just collateral.”

  His voice dropped.

  'There it is. The opening. Maybe I can minimize the damage.'

  “This war was started to draw the U.S. in.” Chazra straightened, turned, and lit a cigarette from the desk.

  “You came here in person. Interesting.”

  She moistened her lips and swallowed.

  “My being here… means nothing.”

  One of his eyebrows lifted.

  “You—the creator of Artistea—mean nothing?”

  'Now, I take control.'

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  He took a drag from his cigarette and walked toward her again.

  "I’ll take you hostage and use that ‘god’ you created to strike the U.S."

  He placed a hand on her shoulder, blowing smoke toward the ceiling.

  Amidst the swirling smoke, she remembered the day Artistea was born.

  A day meant to mark a great beginning, one that would unite all of humanity.

  The fading smoke felt like a vanishing hope.

  Beyond it, the face of the innocent child he once was, seeping into gray shadows.