Kosovo sat alone in a dark room, his expression intense and filled with the weight of history. His mind was a constant battlefield, much like his country’s political landscape. Every decision felt like a game of chess, with countries and alliances moving around him in unpredictable ways. He was young, independent, and fiercely proud, but also burdened by the complicated reality of his existence.

Years had passed since Kosovo had declared independence, yet the scars of conflict were still fresh. He was surrounded by countries that didn't recognize his sovereignty, and every conversation he had with anyone outside his borders felt like a negotiation, a balancing act. He was trying to build relationships, but every interaction was filled with underlying tension. Some saw him as a symbol of hope, a beacon for other nations seeking self-determination, but others—particularly Serbia—saw him as a rebellious child, refusing to stay in his place.

"South Serbia," Kosovo muttered under his breath, his jaw tightening at the very thought. It was a phrase that made his blood boil, a reminder of the past that he could never escape. He hated it with every fiber of his being. He wasn’t a part of Serbia anymore—he had made his own path, even if that path was difficult and full of obstacles. No, he was Kosovo, a proud country with his own identity, his own story.

Yet, despite the recognition from some countries, the world still wasn't fully on his side. His sovereignty was fragile, teetering on the edge. Some days, it felt like the whole world was against him, and he wondered if it was worth it. The pressure of trying to prove himself was suffocating. His allies were few, but he clung to them with desperation, seeking validation wherever he could. He had learned to play the game of politics—sometimes subtle, sometimes blunt—but always with his own interests in mind.