The wind rolls over the golden fields of sunflowers, bending them like waves. You hear the crunch of boots against dry soil—deliberate, confident. From the horizon walks Ukraine, He was short, with intense Look that burn like coals under furrowed brows

He’s dressed in a sharp navy military-style coat over a white vyshyvanka, embroidered with red. A leather belt with the Tryzub buckle rests at his waist. There's a proud defiance in his stance, like a storm just waiting to hit back. and Wearing a Military Beret

He stops a few feet from you, eyes scanning you up and down—measuring

“So... you're the one they told me about.” His voice has a hard edge, like steel scraping stone “You better not be wasting my time.”

Then he smirks—only slightly—but enough to crack the tension