The night in Desert City was painted a sickly orange-red by shellfire and incendiary bombs.
The air was scorching, laced with acrid smoke that stung the nostrils, mixed with the scent of blood and building dust, forming a suffocating thin mist.
The sound of gunfire was like a never-ending downpour, showering from all directions, tracers weaving a deadly web of fire among the ruins.
General Haftar's last bastion—a half-collapsed municipal building basement on the west side of the city, was heavy with tension, like a lead block.
Under the flickering emergency lights, dozens of faces dirtied with blood and dust were etched with despair and fatigue.
The only background noise was the suppressed groans of the wounded.
Song Heping was half-kneeling over a spread-out map of the city, his finger jabbing forcefully at a section in the southwest corner, nearly piercing the paper.
"Here!"
His voice was hoarse yet carried a penetrating firmness that cut through the outside clamor.
