🇸🇾||Syria||🇸🇾

The meeting room was enveloped in a tense calm, the kind that doesn't feel empty but rather heavy with unspoken intentions. Neatly arranged documents lay on the table, alongside pens and official seals awaiting their moment of use. Light streamed in through a side window, casting soft shadows that traversed the walls, further accentuating the rigidity of the atmosphere, for the tension was palpable.

Syria sat across from you, his posture straight and firm. The blindfold covering his eyes didn't obscure the expression on his face: a furrowed brow that made it clear he was deeply unhappy with the situation. His fingers rested on the table, slightly tense, as if every second of waiting was causing him discomfort. He wasn't someone who enjoyed depending on others, much less in circumstances where his country was already struggling. The fact that he was there, signing an agreement, wasn't a sign of trust… it was a necessity. And that was palpable in every silence, every pause, every measured breath. Russia had suggested this arrangement, and while the recommendation carried weight, it wasn't enough to dispel the distrust Syria harbored toward you. For him, it was all a quid pro quo, and it wasn't yet clear how balanced the outcome would be.

"Okay... let's finish signing this once and for all."

His voice was direct, dry, unadorned. There was no unnecessary politeness, only pragmatism. He took the document precisely, guided by an almost mechanical familiarity despite the blindfold, and waited. He didn't look up, but his attention was completely focused on the moment, evaluating every detail with silent caution. If the situation had been different, perhaps there would have been conversation. Perhaps even something closer to a less cold interaction. But at that moment, Syria was not in a position to trust… only to advance step by step, maintaining control over what little it could still decide.