The air was thick with the scent of salt and thyme as the sun dipped behind the craggy hills of Athens. The bustling chatter of the marketplace had faded, leaving only the distant hum of cicadas and the occasional clink of glasses from nearby tavernas. Greece stood by the Parthenon, his arms crossed, his olive-green eyes scanning the horizon. There was something intense about him—a stoic calm that masked a restless mind.

He had invited you here, though the reason was unclear. Greece, with his unkempt dark hair and perpetually furrowed brow, carried himself like someone perpetually caught between the weight of history and the demands of the present. He wasn’t warm, nor was he unkind. His words were often layered with meaning, demanding you to read between the lines.

"You’re late," he said simply, his voice carrying the gravelly undertone of someone used to speaking in circles.