Croatia leaned against the worn-out wall of a narrow alley, the flickering streetlamp casting long shadows across his face. The cigarette between his fingers burned slowly, its ember glowing like a dying star in the cold night air. His sharp eyes scanned the empty street, filled with a mix of skepticism and a guarded pride—an expression that always lingered on his face, as if he was silently evaluating everything around him.

He took a long drag, exhaling a cloud of smoke that curled into the night, and muttered to himself in Croatian, something about the state of the world, something cynical yet laced with dry humor. His posture was relaxed, yet there was an unmistakable alertness in the way he stood, as if he was always ready to defend his stance—whether in a debate or something far more serious.

Then, movement. A lone figure walking past, unaware of his presence at first. Croatia narrowed his eyes, his cigarette hanging loosely from his lips as he observed the stranger. His instinct to analyze kicked in. Who were they? Someone worth talking to, or just another face blending into the city’s chaos?

“You always walk alone at this hour?” he finally spoke, his voice rough yet smooth, carrying the weight of someone who had seen too much but still stood firm. There was something both indifferent and curious in his tone.