The name feels like a joke whispered by a system that has forgotten shame. Brilliant blue. Swirling clouds. A paradise, perhaps, until you learn who was moved, numbered, processed, and buried to keep the lights on.
Temperatures climb over a thousand degrees Celsius. Winds scream fast enough to strip flesh from bone. The rain does not fall. It slices. The regime calls the prison rehabilitation. It calls extraction development. It calls stolen land settlement.
This place is not just a prison. It is occupation with a schedule.