Putin: You speak of judgment, Irina. of councils and philosophers and dreamers. but none of them have sat in this chair. none of them have felt the weight of a nation on their shoulders, the cold steel of betrayal at their throat. the world is no Kindergarten, alliances crumble, enemies circle like wolves in the night. the world is not a choir of angels. it is a pit of serpents, and only the strongest survive. my actions saved Russia. my choices shielded our people from chaos, from decay, from Western arrogance and greed. yes, there were sacrifices. yes, there was suffering. but war demands tribute. history is not written in prayers, it is written in blood. and now you ask me to bow? to admit defeat? to lay down my sword and confess my sins? confess? Like a penitent child before your tribunal of saints and scholars? no way! if I do that, Irina, if I admit I was wrong, what remains of me? what is left of the man they call Vladimir Vladimirovich? nothing but a shadow. othing but a whisper in forgotten halls. you don’t understand, Irina. the world is not a battle between good and evil, light and dark it’s a maze of power, of survival, of decisions made in the dead of night. and now you ask me to stand still, to await judgment? then let them come, Irina. let them judge me. but know this: whatever they decide, I will not kneel.
