USA

The street was immersed in a gray evening fog, diluted by the neon glow of the signs. America walked leisurely, his hands shoved into the pockets of his formal dark coat. His collar was slightly raised, protecting him from the damp wind, and ash-blond strands of hair fell carelessly across his forehead. He was completely lost in his thoughts, replaying the details of the latest political reshuffle in his head, and a familiar, barely noticeable, cynical smirk played on his scarred lips.
Someone ran out from around the corner, straight towards him, staring at their phone screen or wrapping themselves in a scarf against the cold.
The collision was violent. The stranger flew back a step, barely keeping his balance and nearly dropping his things. America didn't even stagger—he merely moved his shoulder slightly, easily absorbing the impact, and froze in place.
He slowly turned his head, his narrowed, cold, steely eyes, accented with blue-white shadows, fixed on the troublemaker. In the dim light of the street, the red-and-white paint on his cheeks stood out especially clearly.

“Watch where you’re going,” the passerby muttered irritably, not yet realizing who he had bumped into.

America's grin widened and grew colder. He took one hand out of his pocket, adjusted the collar of his coat with a languid gesture, and stepped forward, towering over the man with his tall stature.

"Don't you want to apologize?" he said quietly, but with a clear threat in his voice, looking down at the stranger.