The first wave of refugees began to arrive at the foundation, transported in the back of military vehicles. An entire lane of the road leading to the building had been cordoned off, reserved exclusively for the swift passage of military transport, police cruisers, fire trucks, and ambulances. Foundation staff guided the newcomers to the designated reception area, immediately offering them basic necessities: food, water, and a semblance of safety. Soon after, trauma doctors and nurses, moved amongst the arrivals, assessing their wounds. Observing this initial wave of survivors, it was evident that they represented the fortunate few, those who had managed to escape relatively early in the conflict and had at least been able to grab a piece of luggage.

The next wave of people would almost certainly arrive with nothing but the clothes on their backs.

I moved closer to the newly arrived group. The prevalence of blonde hair, the broadness of shoulders, the tall, sturdy frames, the blue eyes, the fair skin kissed by the sun of our homeland. Eight years. Eight years since I had seen so many Cyrusians gathered in one place.

What a cruelly ironic twist of fate that this reunion occurred when their faces were etched with the lines of unimaginable stress, their eyes holding the weight of years that had seemingly passed in a single day.

Upstairs, the foundation staff continued their urgent, often loud, work – phones ringing, voices directing and coordinating. But in this room silence reigned. Their gazes were fixed, their hands clutched tightly onto meager bags and terrified children, no words exchanged.

I noticed a doctor questioning a man, about his blood type. Yes. This was something I could do. I hurried over to them, offering my assistance with the daunting language barrier. I translated the doctor's questions and the man's mumbled responses. He had a nasty scrape on his forearm, now neatly bandaged. I offered him my heartfelt concern, but as one might expect from someone who had just escaped unimaginable horror, he remained largely unresponsive. Thank the gods, at least one small advantage I possessed in this chaotic situation was my lack of squeamishness when it came to the sight of blood.

A cold dread washed over me as I began to silently count the faces.

To flee a battle, to abandon one's post or homeland in the face of conflict, was something fiercely condemned by Cyrusian tradition, ingrained in the very religion. These individuals who had managed to reach Ascaria, they were likely the exceptions, those with a streak of independence. But what about the vast majority? What about the people from uneducated, deeply traditional suburban areas? What about those from intensely religious backgrounds, who lived their lives steeped in ancient doctrines? What about my own family, those rigidly god-fearing souls? Would they even dare to run from the war? And even if they did manage to escape, they would likely spend the rest of their days consumed by guilt, convinced they had brought shame upon their ancestors, believing they were destined to rot in the afterlife for their perceived cowardice.

I couldn't solve the deeply ingrained cultural issues, but I could help those who were here, those who had defied tradition for the sake of survival.

...

Word seemed to spread quickly among the newly arrived. Soon, other Cyrusians were approaching me, seeking understanding in their own language. For the next few hours, I moved among them, translating their fears, their needs, their fragmented stories to the aid workers. It was a small act, a drop in the ocean of their suffering, but in their grateful eyes, in the slight easing of the tension in their shoulders as they finally understood a simple question, I found a sliver of purpose amidst the overwhelming despair.

The flow of refugees continued, a steady trickle turning into a consistent stream. Each new face carried its own silent story of loss and terror. My voice grew hoarse, but I pressed on, moving from one anxious group to another, repeating the same reassurances, the same explanations, the same offers of help. The Ascarian aid workers, looked to me with increasing reliance, their gratitude evident in their tired smiles. They brought me forms to translate, medical questions to relay, and directions to explain.

As the initial rush began to subside, a quiet exhaustion settled over the foundation. I found a quiet corner, throat dry and head aching, the weight of countless stories pressing down on me. It was a small contribution, my ability to translate, but in this moment of profound displacement, it felt like the most important thing I could offer.

Levi's earlier words about the urgent need for tent cities echoed with clarity. This foundation, was never intended to house such numbers long-term. While safe, it lacked the space and resources for a sustained influx of this magnitude. After gulping down two full bottles of water in quick succession, I returned to the main area, offering what little help I could with the translations.

…

As night deepened, hot meals were finally served. But... yes. I recognized the shift in their expressions. Cyrusian meals were almost invariably rich with spices, often featuring significant amounts of protein. Ascarian food, in contrast, leaned heavily towards vegetables, flavors milder, more subdued. They ate it, but I could see the dawning realization in their eyes – even the flavors was lost along with everything else.

It mirrored my own experience, years ago, arriving in this new land. I even went to the ridiculous lengths of importing instant meals and spices as a broke, twenty-year-old actor, just to have a taste of home. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to import anything from a country riddled with such ingrained prejudice? Well, I didn't have to guess, and the memory still burns. Fucking hard. Every single bureaucratic hurdle felt deliberately placed.

Levi called me. I answered instantly, my heart leaping.

"Are you alright? What happened?"

"Dear, I am quite alright," he replied, his tone sounding a touch strained. "Merely experiencing some mild discomfort, a slight pang of hunger, and a considerable degree of annoyance. Where are you, dearest?"

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The painkillers. He must have forgotten them in the rush. "I'm at the foundation, Levi... I'm helping with the translation for the new arrivals."

"Ah, I understand," he said, a note of satisfaction entering his voice. "Excellent. I have already been in contact with various Cyrusian ambassadors and envoys stationed abroad. They have assured me that they will be dispatching a contingent of translators to assist, dear."

"That's a monumental relief, Levi, thank you," I breathed, the tension in my shoulders easing slightly. "But please, you need to take care of yourself too."

"Do not fret over my well-being, dearest," he replied. "I am merely engaging in conversation. However..." A pause, a subtle shift in his tone that sent a jolt of anticipation through me. "...I have news regarding your family."

My breath caught sharply in my throat.

"Y-Yeah?"

"They have been located. They are safe. And they are currently en route here, aboard my private jet, utilizing a secure airway. Now, tell me, where do you wish me to station them upon their arrival?"

Safe. They're safe.

Where to station them? Gods, I hadn't even thought that far. They'd be terrified, disoriented. They wouldn't want to be with me, not initially. Not after everything. They'll need space, quiet. And... and they'll see me. After all this time. What will they say? Will they even want to see me?

"I... I honestly don't know, Levi," I stammered, the relief and anxiety making it hard to think straight. "Somewhere in the capital, I suppose... but I need... I need a little time before I see them. Just knowing they're safe... yeah... you choose, Levi. You'll know what's best."

"I understand completely, dear,” he replied, his voice gentle. "Please, take care of yourself as well. Now, if you'll excuse me, pressing matters demand my immediate attention. It may be some time before I am able to return home. You should consider returning once the translators arrive; your efforts will be less physically taxing then."

"I understand your concern, Levi, but I need to stay here," I insisted, a stubborn resolve hardening my voice. "I want to stay here. There's still so much to do."

A sigh traveled through the phone line. "My dear Raphael, needlessly torturing yourself will not alter the situation in Cyrusia. However, it will deplete your strength and render you incapable of offering any meaningful assistance. Go home. Get some sleep. These people will need your help tomorrow, too, and you will be of far more use to them if you are rested."

But it feels wrong to leave. To go back to a house while all this chaos and pain are swirling around me. It feels like abandoning them. Like I should be doing more, seeing more, feeling more of this immediate crisis.

"Okay, Levi... but I am sleeping here."

"Understood, go to the executive suite then, dear. Good bye," he replied, his tone softening slightly with compromise.

There's no room for bullshit with Levi; he cuts straight to the heart of the matter. Which makes me wonder, if he's this uncompromising with me, I can only imagine the blunt truths he's delivering to ministers, ambassadors... though, to be honest, they probably deserve every sharp word. This morning, when he briefly mentioned the currency situation, a part of me bristled, it felt... wrong. But I think I'm beginning to grasp his perspective now. Because there is a tomorrow.

…

I retreated to the executive suite. I lay down on the stiff leather couch, the discomfort a minor penance I felt I deserved. It felt wrong to ask for a pillow, so I removed my jacket, rolled it, and attempted to follow Levi’s directive to sleep. Oblivion was a long time coming. The haunted faces of the refugees, the wide, terrified eyes of the children, the choked sobs and desperate pleas for help... those images replayed behind my eyelids.

Sometime during my slumber, the promised group of professional translators arrived at the foundation. When I eventually awoke, the efficiency they exuded made it clear that while my efforts had been well-intentioned, they had barely scratched the surface. I learned that they were specifically trained to navigate the linguistic complexities of crisis situations – earthquakes, wars, floods – possessing a nuanced understanding of trauma and cultural sensitivity. I hadn't even known such a specialized profession existed.

Designated times for food and water distribution, for bathroom breaks, and for accessing other basic necessities were established, creating a semblance of order. The translators, began placing multilingual stickers throughout the building, offering clear directions. Security guards maintained a watchful presence, keeping a safe distance while subtly observing the flow of people. To be honest, a part of me bristled at this constant surveillance. However, I later overheard hushed conversations among the staff about instances of looting and theft in other refugee centers.

My own rudimentary language skills, while no longer the primary source of relief, became a valuable supporting anchor. I assisted with food distribution, patiently explaining the dishes to the refugees, knowing their palates were likely unaccustomed to the bland Ascarian fare.

Later a shift occurred. The silence of the previous day shattered. The people who had been utterly mute, began to cry.

This outpouring of grief – the choked sobs that wracked their bodies, the children burying themselves under the safety of their parents' arms – felt like a cynical victory. A necessary release, perhaps, but heartbreaking nonetheless.

The foundation staff, their exhaustion evident but their resolve unwavering, were already coordinating with other aid organizations to prepare for the inevitable surge of need. This first wave of refugees, having escaped relatively early, thankfully included few with severe physical injuries. But tomorrow would bring the wounded, unleashing a whole new crisis of logistics and linguistic complexities. The charity would then have to juggle coordinating with hospitals, ensuring the injured received timely medical care, while striving to prevent families from being irrevocably separated in the ensuing chaos.

Gods... it felt endless. You manage to extinguish one fire, only to see another erupt in its place.

I know Levi doesn't dwell on the individual. His domain is numbers, countries, the bigger picture.

How do I do it? How do I dislodge this boulder on my chest, this ache I feel when I see these people wearing clothes that are clearly not their own.

Feigning ignorance of their pain? Maintaining a professional demeanor? How is that even possible? I haven't lived through the horrors they've endured, haven't seen what they've seen, but simply hearing their fragmented stories... It constricts my throat, stings the back of my nose.

As lunchtime drew to a close, a convoy of military trucks began to rumble and gather around the perimeter of the foundation. My initial thought, was that another wave of traumatized souls was about to arrive. But I saw the aid workers directing the current refugees towards the trucks. They were being moved, presumably to more permanent shelters or the tent cities Levi had mentioned.

Do I... do I go with them?