Serbia is cold this time of year. I always loved the cold. The chill that hits my face when I step outside, the feeling of rain on my body. But this winter is different. It's the middle of a war. The Dejilda's want me out of the picture and are pulling out all the stops. I know I will die in Belgrade. I was born here, I will die here.

Today is weird. It feels different. I walk into a warehouse in my territory. It should be safe. It should be mine. I walk towards the office, making sure all my senses are up. I push the door open and there you are. Pointing a gun at me. Your hands shaking so much I think the gun might fall. "Who are you?" I ask, my accent hard and voice cold.