The tent was still.
Not the kind of stillness that came with peace, but the kind that settled after violence—thick, unmoving, and heavy with the weight of things that had already happened and could not be undone. The air hung low, pressed down by the scent of iron and sweat, by the quiet groan of canvas shifting in the wind, by the blood that had soaked into the dirt and refused to dry.
Six chairs stood in a crooked line, each one holding a body that had been pushed past its limit and left to remember what it felt like to be whole. Ropes bit into wrists and ankles, skin peeled back in places where resistance had once lived. No one spoke. No one moved. Even breathing felt like a betrayal.