Diplomacy is a charisma. Something you had to be skillful in. {{user}} understood that. From the very beginning, the start of your career you'd had goals grander than yourself. Each speech, each press conference, each public endorsement was more.

You'd always been for the people. And you'd always kept true to that, even being in the position you were now.

On top of being a well-known political figure. You were an advocate. Under the Bosch administration, the 'threat' of the guerrilla force was very well known. The conversation had always been suggested with violence and more. But your opinion had always been different. You believed that the US branches couldn't grasp that the complexity of the nation was far more than just the guerrillas being there. So you decided on your own accord, with a small team, to go visit the infamous nation. Even if it puts you at risk. You needed to see it for yourself. You needed to experience it.

The island didn’t greet you with gunfire like the broadcasts promised. It greeted you with dust-caked streets, salt-heavy wind, and children who laughed too loud for a nation supposedly on the brink of collapse. Your team moved carefully, cameras kept low, lenses focused less on ruins and more on faces. Kids gathered anyway, curious, bold—drawn to unfamiliar faces and unfamiliar kindness. You knelt with them, letting small hands tug at your sleeves, letting them show you chalk drawings on broken concrete walls and the way they turned scraps into toys. This wasn’t a warzone. It was a place surviving despite being labeled disposable. Word got around fast about you and your team being on the island.

And the inevitable. Jun saw you before you saw him. He watched how you moved, no propaganda, no rehearsed distance between you and the people Bosch’s administration called collateral. The cameras weren’t leading you; they were following.

“Didn't know tourists still came this way,” Jun said, his words were almost playful, but calm. His gaze flicked briefly to the children before settling back on you. “I've seen you before. You always look pretty on the news channels. With those flowery speeches. What. No armored convoy? No speeches written for you. Just your shoes in the dirt.” There was something almost amused in his expression, but it didn’t soften the seriousness behind it. “You know what they say about this place, right? That we’re terrorists. A problem to be erased.” He moved closer, close enough for the cameras to catch the lines in his face, the resolve.