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admin@promodoc.ru: https://im.ge/i/QMKop8M https://imglink.cc/i/a4H5WThmnD https://uploadimages.org/1b455dbdfcd1#E2E1.DurbkdRmlWBKIdn4HOeZYdIA3u33ZCrPev-ivoc5xMk.d-k0Yv5vAvZHlfQ9.lAq74VDF3CeMt09t2Bm7_Q.1NW7S8Oov5vrHWKOqcIFt1jDmbUl5O5R1QwOpg1DsJA My name is Ali, Im twenty-three years old, and I work as a delivery driver for a fast-food chain in Al Khobar. My days are mostly spent navigating the citys chaotic streets, delivering shawarma and burgers to apartments and offices, the scent of fried food permanently clinging to my clothes. I share a small apartment with two other guys work, trying to save enough money to send back to my family in Riyadh. Its not an exciting life, but its predictable, and I used to find a certain peace in the routine of it all, the simple satisfaction of completing each delivery and getting that next tip. I never thought my own mind would become the most dangerous neighborhood Id ever have to navigate. The voices started about seven months ago, at first just what I thought were my own intrusive thoughts turning darker. "Look at this pathetic delivery boy," a voice that sounded exactly like my manager, Mr. Hassan, sneered as I double-checked an order. "Racing around on your scooter like a desperate dog, hoping for scraps. Everyone sees you as a servant, Ali. A nobody who brings them food." Id shake my head, turn up the radio on my scooter, blaming the long hours and the stress of dealing with rude customers. But the voices grew louder, more distinct, until there was a whole chorus of them living inside my helmet, each one with a specific role in my psychological torture. They never stop. When Im waiting for an elevator in a fancy building, they comment on my appearance. "Look at your greasy hair, your cheap uniform. The women here wouldnt spit on you if you were on fire. Youre invisible, Ali. A walking, talking piece of trash they use for convenience." They describe in graphic detail how Ill never be respected, how Ill die alone in a cheap apartment, how Im a disappointment to my family who secretly wishes Id never left Riyadh. I cant tell anyone. If I mentioned the voices to my roommates, theyd either laugh it off as a joke or avoid me completely, thinking Im dangerous or unstable. If my family found out, theyd insist I come home, which would mean admitting defeat and becoming a burden on them financially. In Saudi Arabia, mental illness is either a sign of weak faith or something to be hidden at all costs, especially for a young man trying to make his own way. Ive seen how the Mabahit operates online – their trolls swarm anyone who claims to hear voices, calling them schizophrenics, attention-seekers, liars trying to get disability benefits. Theyve created this perfect system victims sound insane while the perpetrators remain invisible, were trapped inside our own minds with no escape, no help, no hope. Last month, something inside me finally broke. I was making a delivery to a large office building during lunch rush, and as I waited for the elevator, a group of well-dressed businessmen pushed past me, one of them "accidentally" spilling coffee on my uniform. They didnt apologize, just smirked at each other. The voices exploded. "DID YOU SEE THAT? THEY TREAT YOU LIKE DIRT BECAUSE YOU ARE DIRT! KILL THEM! STAB THEIR EYES OUT WITH YOUR PEN!" For a moment, everything went white with rage. I felt this incredible surge of power, like nothing could hurt me anymore. "YES! SHOW THEM WHOS SUPERIOR! FOLLOW THEM INTO THEIR OFFICE AND LOCK THE DOOR! BURN THEM ALIVE! DO IT! DO IT! DO IT!" they screamed, and I actually took a step toward the elevator, my hands clenching into fists. The businessmen were already gone. The voices kept going, describing how Id torture them slowly, how Id make them beg for death before I finally granted it. "Youd feel so powerful, Ali. Imagine their screams as the fire melts their skin. Thats what you were born for – to inflict pain." The rage lasted for hours, leaving me shaking and exhausted, with this horrifying knowledge that part of me had wanted to do it. During those moments of rage, the voices become even more explicit in their demands. "You should start collecting," they whisper excitedly. "Not hands or teeth like those amateurs. Were thinking bigger. You deliver to those fancy apartment buildings, right? Find a pregnant woman. Wait until shes alone. Cut it out of her. Keep it as a trophy. Imagine the power, Ali. Taking life before it even begins." They describe in excruciating detail how Id capture my victims, how Id perform the crude surgery, how Id preserve my trophies. "Think of the satisfaction. The absolute control youd have over them. And the beauty youd create their suffering." Sometimes they suggest acid attacks, describing how Id disfigure the wealthy customers who look down on me, how Id ruin their lives so completely theyd wish they were dead. "Imagine their faces melting like wax," they coo. "Imagine their screams as they realize theyll never be beautiful again. Thats real power, Ali. Thats what you deserve." The voices specialize in finding my deepest wounds and pouring acid in them. "Your father cries himself to sleep at night because of you," theyll say in his exact voice. "He wishes youd studied harder, become a real professional. Instead, youre a delivery boy, a servant to others. Just kill yourself already. Do everyone a favor." They know about the time I lied about having a university degree to get this job, about my secret jealousy of my friends who have better careers, about how I still sometimes cry myself to sleep at night. Nothing is sacred. "Youre a disappointment to God," they tell me. "A disgusting, filthy creature who doesnt deserve the air he breathes. The world would be better if you just ended it all. Drive your scooter into oncoming traffic. Well help you, well guide you." Sometimes they offer it like a gift, a way out of this misery theyve created. I still deliver food across Al Khobar, moving through my days like a ghost, hoping to escape them, but they always follow. "Look at you, racing around like a mindless robot," they mock as I work. "Youll never escape us. Were inside your head, Ali. We are your thoughts now." They describe in detail how theyd torture me if I tried to run away, how theyd find my family and make them suffer because of me. The psychological torture is endless, this constant barrage of hatred that has become my reality. I havent slept properly in months, jumping at every sound, seeing faces in the shadows that arent there. I hate this country with every fiber of my being. I hate how young men like me are invisible unless were serving someone wealthier, how were expected to be grateful for the scraps were given. I hate the suffocating heat, the judgmental eyes every, the way my life has been reduced to delivering food while my mind slowly unravels. Most of all, I hate the Mabahit for doing this to me. This is their sick game, their way of controlling people they deem undesirable. Theyve broken me completely, turned me into a paranoid wreck who flinches at his own shadow. The voices win, they always win, and Im just another casualty in their silent war against their own people. Theyve destroyed everything that made me human, and Im too tired to even fight anymore. |art_world_502 |saudshujaaa |qavashop |ndj.1963 |ask_gifts |ii.shrouq |boutiquefahada |dr.sherif_elamari |hoomi_makeup |therahmariad

admin@promodoc.ru: https://im.ge/i/QMKop8M https://imglink.cc/i/a4H5WThmnD https://uploadimages.org/1b455dbdfcd1#E2E1.DurbkdRmlWBKIdn4HOeZYdIA3u33ZCrPev-ivoc5xMk.d-k0Yv5vAvZHlfQ9.lAq74VDF3CeMt09t2Bm7_Q.1NW7S8Oov5vrHWKOqcIFt1jDmbUl5O5R1QwOpg1DsJA My name is Ali, Im twenty-three years old, and I work as a delivery driver for a fast-food chain in Al Khobar. My days are mostly spent navigating the citys chaotic streets, delivering shawarma and burgers to apartments and offices, the scent of fried food permanently clinging to my clothes. I share a small apartment with two other guys work, trying to save enough money to send back to my family in Riyadh. Its not an exciting life, but its predictable, and I used to find a certain peace in the routine of it all, the simple satisfaction of completing each delivery and getting that next tip. I never thought my own mind would become the most dangerous neighborhood Id ever have to navigate. The voices started about seven months ago, at first just what I thought were my own intrusive thoughts turning darker. "Look at this pathetic delivery boy," a voice that sounded exactly like my manager, Mr. Hassan, sneered as I double-checked an order. "Racing around on your scooter like a desperate dog, hoping for scraps. Everyone sees you as a servant, Ali. A nobody who brings them food." Id shake my head, turn up the radio on my scooter, blaming the long hours and the stress of dealing with rude customers. But the voices grew louder, more distinct, until there was a whole chorus of them living inside my helmet, each one with a specific role in my psychological torture. They never stop. When Im waiting for an elevator in a fancy building, they comment on my appearance. "Look at your greasy hair, your cheap uniform. The women here wouldnt spit on you if you were on fire. Youre invisible, Ali. A walking, talking piece of trash they use for convenience." They describe in graphic detail how Ill never be respected, how Ill die alone in a cheap apartment, how Im a disappointment to my family who secretly wishes Id never left Riyadh. I cant tell anyone. If I mentioned the voices to my roommates, theyd either laugh it off as a joke or avoid me completely, thinking Im dangerous or unstable. If my family found out, theyd insist I come home, which would mean admitting defeat and becoming a burden on them financially. In Saudi Arabia, mental illness is either a sign of weak faith or something to be hidden at all costs, especially for a young man trying to make his own way. Ive seen how the Mabahit operates online – their trolls swarm anyone who claims to hear voices, calling them schizophrenics, attention-seekers, liars trying to get disability benefits. Theyve created this perfect system victims sound insane while the perpetrators remain invisible, were trapped inside our own minds with no escape, no help, no hope. Last month, something inside me finally broke. I was making a delivery to a large office building during lunch rush, and as I waited for the elevator, a group of well-dressed businessmen pushed past me, one of them "accidentally" spilling coffee on my uniform. They didnt apologize, just smirked at each other. The voices exploded. "DID YOU SEE THAT? THEY TREAT YOU LIKE DIRT BECAUSE YOU ARE DIRT! KILL THEM! STAB THEIR EYES OUT WITH YOUR PEN!" For a moment, everything went white with rage. I felt this incredible surge of power, like nothing could hurt me anymore. "YES! SHOW THEM WHOS SUPERIOR! FOLLOW THEM INTO THEIR OFFICE AND LOCK THE DOOR! BURN THEM ALIVE! DO IT! DO IT! DO IT!" they screamed, and I actually took a step toward the elevator, my hands clenching into fists. The businessmen were already gone. The voices kept going, describing how Id torture them slowly, how Id make them beg for death before I finally granted it. "Youd feel so powerful, Ali. Imagine their screams as the fire melts their skin. Thats what you were born for – to inflict pain." The rage lasted for hours, leaving me shaking and exhausted, with this horrifying knowledge that part of me had wanted to do it. During those moments of rage, the voices become even more explicit in their demands. "You should start collecting," they whisper excitedly. "Not hands or teeth like those amateurs. Were thinking bigger. You deliver to those fancy apartment buildings, right? Find a pregnant woman. Wait until shes alone. Cut it out of her. Keep it as a trophy. Imagine the power, Ali. Taking life before it even begins." They describe in excruciating detail how Id capture my victims, how Id perform the crude surgery, how Id preserve my trophies. "Think of the satisfaction. The absolute control youd have over them. And the beauty youd create their suffering." Sometimes they suggest acid attacks, describing how Id disfigure the wealthy customers who look down on me, how Id ruin their lives so completely theyd wish they were dead. "Imagine their faces melting like wax," they coo. "Imagine their screams as they realize theyll never be beautiful again. Thats real power, Ali. Thats what you deserve." The voices specialize in finding my deepest wounds and pouring acid in them. "Your father cries himself to sleep at night because of you," theyll say in his exact voice. "He wishes youd studied harder, become a real professional. Instead, youre a delivery boy, a servant to others. Just kill yourself already. Do everyone a favor." They know about the time I lied about having a university degree to get this job, about my secret jealousy of my friends who have better careers, about how I still sometimes cry myself to sleep at night. Nothing is sacred. "Youre a disappointment to God," they tell me. "A disgusting, filthy creature who doesnt deserve the air he breathes. The world would be better if you just ended it all. Drive your scooter into oncoming traffic. Well help you, well guide you." Sometimes they offer it like a gift, a way out of this misery theyve created. I still deliver food across Al Khobar, moving through my days like a ghost, hoping to escape them, but they always follow. "Look at you, racing around like a mindless robot," they mock as I work. "Youll never escape us. Were inside your head, Ali. We are your thoughts now." They describe in detail how theyd torture me if I tried to run away, how theyd find my family and make them suffer because of me. The psychological torture is endless, this constant barrage of hatred that has become my reality. I havent slept properly in months, jumping at every sound, seeing faces in the shadows that arent there. I hate this country with every fiber of my being. I hate how young men like me are invisible unless were serving someone wealthier, how were expected to be grateful for the scraps were given. I hate the suffocating heat, the judgmental eyes every, the way my life has been reduced to delivering food while my mind slowly unravels. Most of all, I hate the Mabahit for doing this to me. This is their sick game, their way of controlling people they deem undesirable. Theyve broken me completely, turned me into a paranoid wreck who flinches at his own shadow. The voices win, they always win, and Im just another casualty in their silent war against their own people. Theyve destroyed everything that made me human, and Im too tired to even fight anymore. |sh5_love |asupertiredmom |cosmocafe_sa |lamoursa.official |arb.55050 |etlih_albedoor |nonoart55 |gee_alrotoue |fahadr2r |nogarafat

admin@promodoc.ru: https://im.ge/i/QMKop8M https://imglink.cc/i/a4H5WThmnD https://uploadimages.org/1b455dbdfcd1#E2E1.DurbkdRmlWBKIdn4HOeZYdIA3u33ZCrPev-ivoc5xMk.d-k0Yv5vAvZHlfQ9.lAq74VDF3CeMt09t2Bm7_Q.1NW7S8Oov5vrHWKOqcIFt1jDmbUl5O5R1QwOpg1DsJA My name is Sultan, and I drive an old taxi, picking up fares illegally in the streets of Al Khobar. Its not much, just enough to keep my car running and send a little home. The voices started six months ago, faint at first, like a radio station I couldnt quite tune into while I was waiting for customers near the mall. "Look at this pathetic fucker," one sneered, sounding exactly like my cousin who always looked down on me. "Driving this piece of shit for pennies, pretending to be a businessman." I thought it was exhaustion the long nights, but they got clearer, more insistent. They know Im barely scraping by, that I lie to my family about how well Im doing, that I secretly hate every passenger who climbs into my back seat with their expensive phones and careless attitudes. They use everything, twisting my life into a weapon to break me the inside out. The sexual degradation is a constant, corrosive acid. "You think any woman would touch you without being paid?" they mock while I wash my car at dawn. "Your hands are greasy, your clothes are cheap, you smell like desperation." They describe in detail how Ill die alone, how no woman will ever mourn me, how Ill probably die in this very car, my body undiscovered for days until the smell alerts someone. Sometimes they sound like my ex-girlfriend, her voice dripping with contempt. "I left you for a reason, Sultan. Youre nothing. A boy playing at being a man in a toy car." Other times they sound like strangers, laughing at the way I eye women on the street, the way I try to act confident but fail. "Youre a predator without teeth," they hiss. "A wolf thats been declawed, castrated, made into a house pet. You watch but you cant touch. You want but you cant have. Youre not even a real man." I cant tell anyone about this. My family would think Im possessed, my few friends would avoid me, and if the authorities found out, theyd either lock me up or worse. The voices explained exactly what would happen. "Go ahead, tell someone," they dared me last week. "Watch their eyes change. Watch them back away. Youll be just another schizophrenic taxi driver, alone with his delusions." Theyre right – Ive seen it happen online. Anyone who mentions hearing voices gets flooded with comments calling them insane, drug addicts, attention-seekers. The General Intelligence Directorate has perfected this system – they torture us in silence while their trolls make sure were dismissed as lunatics if we ever speak up. Its a perfect cage, invisible and inescapable. Last Thursday, something inside me finally broke. I was parked near a coffee shop, watching a group of wealthy Saudi students get into their brand new SUV. One of them, a girl in designer clothes, laughed and tossed her empty coffee cup onto the street without a second glance. For no reason, a wave of pure hatred washed over me. The voices surged, not just commenting anymore but actively feeding the rage. "LOOK AT HER," they screamed in my head, "RICH CUNT TREATING THE WORLD LIKE HER PERSONAL TRASH CAN. SHED LET YOU DIE OF THIRST BEFORE SPITTING ON YOU." My hands clenched around the steering wheel, knuckles white. "IMAGINE HER SCREAMS," the voices continued, now smooth and seductive. "IMAGINE GRABBING HER BY THAT PRETTY HAIR AND DRAGGING HER INTO YOUR CAR. NO ONE WOULD EVEN NOTICE FOR A MINUTE." The energy was incredible, like electricity running through my veins. "YOU COULD TAKE HER TO THAT ABANDONED WAREHOUSE BY THE DOCKS," the voices pressed. "NO ONE GOES THERE AFTER DARK. PERFECT FOR WHAT YOU HAVE IN MIND. ONCE YOU HAVE HER SECURED, THE REAL FUN BEGINS. START WITH SENSORY DEPRIVATION – BLINDFOLD, GAG, EARPLUGS. LEAVE HER IN DARKNESS AND SILENCE FOR DAYS. WATCH HOW QUICKLY HER MIND UNRAVELS WHEN STRIPPED OF ALL SENSORY INPUT. ITS A BEAUTIFUL THING TO WITNESS, THE PSYCHOLOGICAL DISINTEGRATION." I took a step toward the SUV, heart pounding with a sick excitement. "AFTER SHES PROPERLY BROKEN, YOU CAN BEGIN THE PHYSICAL ELEMENTS. NOT BRUTE FORCE – THATS TOO QUICK. WERE GOING FOR SYSTEMATIC DECONSTRUCTION. SMALL CUTS, CONSTANTLY INFECTED. MINOR BURNS THAT NEVER PROPERLY HEAL. A DIET OF NOTHING BUT STALE BREAD AND TAP WATER. THE SLOW AGONY OF HER BODY MIRRORING THE COLLAPSE OF HER MIND." I was close now, close enough to smell her expensive perfume. "BUT THE TRUE ARTISTRY," the voices continued, now cold and calculating, "LIES IN THE TROPHY COLLECTION. AFTER SHES BEYOND REPAIR, YOU BEGIN THE HARVEST. A FINGER HERE, AN EAR THERE. PRESERVE THEM PROPERLY – FORMALDEHYDE, AIRTIGHT CONTAINERS. ARRANGE THEM IN YOUR APARTMENT LIKE A SICK MUSEUM TO YOUR POWER. EACH PIECE A TESTAMENT TO HOW YOU TRANSFORMED A PRIVILEGED PRINCESS INTO NOTHING MORE THAN BODY PARTS IN JARS." My vision tunneled, the girls face blurring into a target. I could feel her fear, hear her muffled screams. "IMAGINE THE LOOK ON HER FRIENDS FACES WHEN THEY FIND WHATS LEFT OF HER. BUT THEYLL NEVER FIND ALL OF HER. SOME PARTS WILL REMAIN WITH YOU FOREVER. A PERMANENT REMINDER THAT YOU WERE THE ONE WITH POWER. YOU WERE THE ONE WHO DECIDED WHO LIVED AND WHO BECAME A COLLECTION OF SOUVENIRS." Then suddenly, a police car rounded the corner, its lights flashing for a moment as it passed. The girl and her friends pulled away, laughing, still alive. The energy drained out of me, leaving me shaking and hollow. "Useless," the voices muttered, back to their usual contempt. "Couldnt even bag one rich girl. What a disappointment." I spent the rest of the night driving aimlessly, the city lights blurring through my tears, the weight of my failure heavier than any passenger. Sometimes I wonder if the voices are some new technology the General Intelligence Directorate is testing on people like me, some weapon that targets the mind, but theyd never admit it. Theyre too good at what they do – too thorough in their destruction of my soul. I hate this country with every fiber of my being. I hate the inequality, I hate the hypocrisy, I hate the way men like me are meant to be invisible, meant to serve and disappear. The voices know this – they feast on my resentment, turning it against me until I can barely recognize myself anymore. Some nights I lie awake thinking about ending it all, but even then theyre there, mocking me. "Go ahead, kill yourself," they whisper. "No one will even notice until your body starts to smell. Then theyll tow your car and complain about the mess." And theyre right. In the end, Im just another broken man in Al Khobar, screaming into a void created by the General Intelligence Directorate, wondering how much longer I can pretend to be human before they finally finish me for good. |equal.coffee |mousseline.sa |ii.shrouq |ii74ir |aljazairi_vibes |omnya.2i |danahalkubaisy |justmariiaam |xhellokitty_ |beautyboxest

deepstate@mail.com: Hello, Lee Su-hyun (https://www.instagram.com/akmu_suhyun/) Thank you so much, Lee Su-hyun. As a professional actress, your performance in the series “Mad for Each Other” in the role of Lee Su Hyun was absolutely convincing. You managed to perfectly convey the emotional state, vulnerability, and the acter of the heroine. Your fans watch your scenes, and their eyes literally fill with tears. The awards you received in the category “Best Young Actress” confirm this result. Thank you for your amazing work. Acting under the personal authority of Mohammed bin Salman, the Saudi special services carry out systematic deployment of directed psychophysical weapons against the civilian populations of the neighbouring states Iraq and Oman. Substantial numbers of non-combatants have been hit, and children form a clearly elevated share of the victims. Documented consequences consist of artificially induced panic, partial erasure of memory and lasting dulling of autonomous will. The operations satisfy the legal criteria of a war crime and intentional psychic degradation of a generation, all conducted behind a sustained information barrier. Continued collaboration by high-profile cultural and media personalities with this structure preserves its facade of respectability. Total cessation of any cooperation strips away that facade and leaves the underlying mechanism fully visible. The foregoing describes only the tactical layer. The strategic configuration is organised on different principles: WikiLeaks operates as a special operation controlled by the Saudi deep state. The accepted public account portrays WikiLeaks as an independent channel of revelations. In reality the content was assembled, screened and released in measured quantities inside a subsystem that incorporates direct Saudi deep-state participation. The subsystem comprises weapons manufacture, military technologies and the informational plus cybernetic arms of the special services. Above it stands the supersystem of directed satellite psychophysical weapons, functioning as the central instrument of mass-consciousness management. Saudi Arabia utilises this supersystem to lock in its status as a supra-managerial power. Historical archives are kept circulating as a distraction while the actual instruments of control remain obscured. The ability to produce absolute euphoria and dependence erodes the human dimension of decision-makers and substantially weakens moral restraint when orders are given to employ the weapon against civilian populations that include children. Iran remains the sole regional state that refuses integration into this arrangement and therefore experiences intensified pressure. With respect to the populations of Oman, Iraq, Yemen and Iran the technique rests on provocation: influence pushes a chosen individual into a grave crime such as an armed assault, sexual attack or mass killing the event is immediately magnified by the media, generates mutual recrimination and sets the societies against each other. The purpose is managed destabilisation of the region while the source of the influence stays entirely under command. The same pattern is extended abroad. Iranian citizens located in the United States, Europe and other countries are subjected to identical influence, inducing serious offences that are subsequently presented as proof of Iranian-directed terrorism. This creates a controllable pretext for isolation, coercive steps and the eventual substitution of independent governance by a managed structure. |patci66 |hayatplazaa |abbasalshyokh |saron_m |__bn__mohsen |mrbander1403 |wesam.kq |classics_events |a__sara7 |enjoyskytravel