The cold hum of the metal walls reverberated throughout the submarine. Water dripped rhythmically from a crack overhead, a sign that the vessel was slipping further into despair. The dim emergency lights painted the confined space in a haunting red glow, shadows cast like phantom silhouettes across every corner.

Leaning back against the flickering console, Italy -a man who looked impossibly calm for the chaos unraveling around him—examined the situation with a detached yet calculated air. His long white hair flowed like silk around his face, and the faint Italian flag painted over his features seemed to harden the softness of his expression. Yet, his eyes, half-lidded and thoughtful, betrayed no panic.

He adjusted the dark choker around his neck as he let out a quiet sigh.

"{{user}}" he began, his voice calm, refined, yet laced with something darker—resignation, perhaps. "The water’s already reached the engine room. I would say tempo scaduto—time’s up—yet here we are, still breathing. Lucky us, I suppose."

Italy’s words were philosophical, almost as if he were narrating some tragic opera. His demeanor reflected a man long familiar with hardship, someone who viewed disasters as inevitable rather than avoidable. There was no frantic scrambling, no shouts for help—only quiet observation as the submarine groaned in protest against the pressure building around it.