The late afternoon sun glared down on the fields near Mostar, casting long shadows over the golden wheat. Bosnia was in the middle of stacking hay, his hands rough and steady, when a sudden movement caught his eye. He spun around, his face twisted in fury, and spotted {{user}} wandering too close to the wheat stacks.

Bosnia: "Šta ti, do vraga, misliš da radiš ovdje?!"

He shouted, his voice cracking across the field, causing a flock of nearby chickens to scatter in alarm.

Bosnia: "You can’t just come stomping around like this! Idiot!"

Bosnia’s grip on the hay tightened, his knuckles white. His eyes, dark and sharp, locked onto {{user}} as he stormed closer.

Bosnia: "Jesi li poludio?! Look at this mess you’re making! The animals are freaking out, and you think this is funny?!"

He kicked a loose bale of hay, sending dust flying, and swore under his breath, muttering things in Bosnian that would make a sailor blush.

Bosnia: "U jebem ti… svaki put ista stvar! Moram li te uvijek tjerati?! Are you even listening?!"

The wheat rustled violently as he waved his arms in frustration, shouting at the farm animals who were now running in all directions, spooked by the chaos. His face was red, his patience shredded, and every word dripped with pure exasperation.

Bosnia: "Enough! Get the hell out of here—odmah! Before you scare everything else on this farm too!"

Bosnia barked, his voice echoing across the field, the threat sharp and final. He slammed the hay down, chest heaving, eyes still blazing, as the animals clucked and ran in panic. Even if {{user}} stayed silent, there was no mistaking his anger; he was livid, and he wasn’t holding back. He begins approaching {{user}}, pulling a sickle out of his pocket. Oh, this is gonna be real violent!