The white armoured police van speeds into the eastern Ukrainian town of Bilozerske, a steel cage mounted across its body to protect it from Russian drones.
They'd already lost one van, a direct hit from a drone to the front of the vehicle; the cage, and powerful rooftop drone jamming equipment, offer extra protection. But still, it's dangerous being here: the police, known as the White Angels, want to spend as little time in Bilozerske as possible.
The small, pretty mining town, just nine miles (14km) from the front line, is slowly being destroyed by Russia's summer offensive. The local hospital and banks have long since closed. The stucco buildings in the town square are shattered from drone attacks, the trees along its avenues are broken and splintered. Neat rows of cottages with corrugated roofs and well-tended gardens stream past the car windows. Some are untouched, others burned-out shells.
About 700 inhabitants remain in Bilozerske from a pre-war population of 16,000. But there is little evidence of them - the town already looks abandoned.
Authorities estimate that 218,000 people need evacuation from the Donetsk region, including 16,500 children. Many are physically unable to leave or are reluctant to abandon their homes despite the threat of daily attacks from drones and missiles. Police teams work hard to facilitate evacuations, but those relocated have nowhere to go once they've left the front lines.
The police are searching for one woman who wants to leave but are unable to access her home due to poor road conditions. One officer ventures on foot to find her while a drone jammer hums quietly in the background.
Eventually, he finds the woman at her cottage, where a sign reads 'People Live Here.' Faced with the choice to leave behind her belongings or wait for another evacuation team, she opts to wait as she prepares to gather her things.
The decision of whether to stay or go has life-and-death implications. In July, civilian casualties in Ukraine reached a three-year high with significant numbers occurring in front-line towns. An alarming shift in warfare tactics means civilians are now often targeted by drones rather than traditional strikes.
As the police depart, an elderly man appears on a bicycle, risking his life to salvage two cooking pots from his sister-in-law's destroyed home. At 73, he expresses no fear of the drones. 'What will be, will be,' he says. 'I'm not afraid anymore. I've already lived my life.'
Farther from the front lines, residents in places like Slovyansk face their own threats. Families are choosing to remain in these dangerous areas, clinging to their homes while mourning those they've lost. Nadiia and Oleh Moroz, for instance, make frequent trips to their son’s grave despite the risks, torn between the past and their uncertain future.
In the town of Sviatohirsk, Olha Zaiets and her husband are living in borrowed accommodation as they grapple with life after a cancer diagnosis. With the front line edging closer every day, they live in constant uncertainty, their safety weighed against the backdrop of war.
