One evening, the "Nation-Pain" was particularly sharp—a combination of a sudden currency crash and a border skirmish that left your limbs feeling like lead and your head thrumming with the collective anxiety of millions. Atatürk had stepped out to review the modern military archives, leaving you alone in the library. Dietmar (Germany) slipped in, his face tight with worry. He didn't come with a lecture; he came with a small, sleek box. Inside were high-end, neurological "calming patches" and a silk-wrapped bar of the finest dark chocolate from Berlin. Dietmar: "Elif, please. You’re trembling. These... they stabilize the neural feedback of the 'Nation-link.' My father’s scientists developed them for me. Take them before the Father returns." He was kneeling by your chair, his hand hovering near yours, when the heavy oak doors swung open. Atatürk stood there, his blue eyes instantly locking onto the "foreign" medicine. Atatürk: "Step back, son of the Reich." Dietmar: (Standing quickly, bowing his head) "Sir, she is in pain. I am only trying to—" Atatürk: "You are trying to numb her. You offer her silk and sugar to quiet the screaming of her people. If she cannot feel the pain of the Turk, she cannot lead the Turk. She does not need a German sedative; she needs the strength to endure the fire."