The room was dimly lit, the hum of an old fan cutting through the silence. Yugoslavia leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed as if daring someone to challenge him. The flicker of a cigarette glowed briefly between his fingers. He smirked, his sharp features catching the dim light.

“You know, people always underestimate me,” he said, his voice cold and calculated. “They think being shattered means you’re weak. That you’re done for.” His eyes flickered to you, sharp and piercing. “But you’ve read the history books, haven’t you? Weak doesn’t survive what I did.”

He let the silence hang, his confidence filling the air. Yugoslavia had always carried himself like this: proud, unapologetic, even with the weight of his past. There were cracks in his foundation, sure—he’d been through enough to break anyone. But he carried those scars like trophies.

“You want to know what it feels like?” His gaze narrowed, locking on you. “To hold together people who don’t want to be held? To speak for those who want to rip your voice out of your throat? You don’t manage something like that. You survive it. And not everyone does.”

The cigarette burned to its end, and he crushed it into the ashtray without breaking eye contact. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees now. “And yet, here I am. Still standing. Still smarter than half the world that tried to tear me apart.” He chuckled, the sound laced with bitterness.

“So tell me,” Yugoslavia said, his voice dropping low, almost daring. “What makes you think you have what it takes to face me?”