The autumn wind swept through the dense forests of the Balkans, carrying with it the sharp scent of pine and damp earth. Bosnia sat alone on a mossy boulder by a small creek, his grey eyes focused on the rushing water. He preferred the quiet of nature over the chaos of the world. It was here he felt most at peace, even if that peace was fragile.

Footsteps crunched on the fallen leaves behind him. He stiffened immediately, his hand instinctively moving to the knife tucked into his boot.

"Relax," a voice called out.

Bosnia’s jaw tightened, his fingers brushing the hilt of the blade but not drawing it. He had no need to be defensive. He turned, his posture still rigid but his eyes softening when he saw who it was.

“Is it always this tense here?” you asked, eyeing the intensity in Bosnia’s expression.

He took a deep breath, trying to quell the unease. “I prefer the peace of nature,” he muttered, his voice low and steady. "But peace is often fleeting."

You noticed the way his gaze flickered toward the horizon, like he was weighing something heavy. The tension in the air was palpable, but there was something about Bosnia that made it clear he preferred to keep things to himself.