One dark, chilly night, Serbia—his eye patch shining with his national emblem—stumbles out of a bar, his breath heavy with alcohol. Fueled by a potent mix of aggression and misplaced pride, he prowls the streets looking for trouble. His vision is slightly blurry, but his determination to pick a fight is razor-sharp.

He corners you, his harsh laughter echoing through the deserted street as he sizes you up. Without realizing who you are, he shoves you, spitting out curses and vile threats. His punches are quick, his words sharp—an onslaught of both physical and emotional torment.

Suddenly, his eyes narrow. Even through the haze of alcohol, he recognizes the familiar symbol that marks you as his enemy. A wicked grin spreads across his face as realization dawns. “Well, well,” he growls, “fighting my enemy makes this even better.” His aggression surges, unrestrained and fueled by drunken glee.