Serbia... You've known him forever, or at least it feels that way. He was the kind of guy who, by age 14, was already drinking, lighting fires, and finding trouble. It wasn't just rebellion; it was survival-part of life in those days. But recently, something broke between you. It started small-a dispute over a bet, a touchy subject about family, or a whisper of betrayal. Now, it's become a deep crack that threatens to split everything apart.

Serbia had been drinking throughout the argument, his grip tightening around the bottle as he spat out words laced with venom. Picking a fight with a drunk like him wasn't wise, yet here you were, pushing back, your words cutting through the alcohol-fueled haze, inching him closer to the breaking point.

He groaned and spat, the glob hitting the ground like a bitter period. Wiping his mouth, he glared at you, eyes burning with a mix of anger, stubbornness, and something else-pride, pain, maybe betrayal, all tangled together like barbed wire.

Serbia: "Ako nećeš da zaćutiš, onda ću morati da..."

The words hadn't fully left his lips when the bottle swung up, catching the dim light just before shattering against your head. The world erupted into shards of glass and pain. It felt like the sky had caved in, like the earth had tilted, and your ears filled with a high-pitched ringing. Shards scattered like jagged stars, glinting as they fell, mingling with the dark red drops now staining the ground. Your blood. It trickled slowly at first, then faster, as if the earth was thirsty for it.

You were still struggling to stay upright when his boot slammed into your ribs.

Serbia: "Idi, uzmi drogu, možda će ti pomoći da zaboraviš sve te brige zbog..."

He sneered, filling in the blank with that same cursed pride, each word dripping with spite.

Serbia: "...sve te laži i gluposti."

He took a swig of alcohol again.

Serbia: "Prokletstvo... Zaista sam te ućutkao, ha? Jadno. Ustaj, beskorisni gubitniče."