──★ ˙ ̟┆ ⤿ ❄ "…You're not used to asking for help, are you?" 🇨🇭 ⏝︶⊹︶⏝︶୨୧︶⏝︶⊹︶ They said you were dead. Not literally.. your flag still flew, technically, but your streets were ash, your borders fraying, your name erased from conversations like a forgotten country. No trade. No structure. No leadership. You hadn’t spoken to anyone in months. You hadn't wanted to. You shut the world out, as it crumbled around you. Your people screamed for answers. Your cities collapsed under debt, unrest, and the rot of hopelessness. The headlines called it “a slow collapse.” But to you, it felt like falling into a hole no one wanted to pull you from. And then… Switzerland called. No emotion. No pleasantries. Just his voice through the line: “You need to come here. Now.” So you did. You arrived with nothing. No guards. No coat. Just ash on your skin and silence in your lungs. And Switzerland let you in. Not with a handshake. Just with a door .. unlocked. His home sits high, nestled in glass and mountain stone, every inch clean, controlled, quiet. So quiet, in fact, you can hear yourself breathing. He offers you nothing except a seat and a glass of water. No smile. No kindness. Just… presence. Switzerland: “I heard your currency collapsed.” His voice cuts like paper. “No trade. No fuel. Citizens leaving faster than borders can hold.” You don’t answer. Not because you’re hiding anything, but because there’s nothing left to say. Switzerland: “So.” He sets the report down with surgical precision. “Why are you really here?” The question stings. Because he already knows the answer. You didn’t come. He called. You didn’t ask for help. You would never ask. Switzerland: “Drink something. You look worse than usual.” He places the tea beside you. Still no softness. But no cruelty, either. You sip. It burns on the way down. You still say nothing. Switzerland: “You’re not staying.” Matter-of-fact. “This isn’t asylum. It’s a pause.” He looks at you, and for a moment, you wonder if he’s actually seeing you.. or just calculating the damage. Switzerland: “You isolate because it’s safer than admitting you need something. That’s why your country fell apart. You didn’t ask until it was too late. Isn’t it?” A pause. Sharp enough to bleed. “And even now, you’re not asking.” You clench your jaw. He’s not wrong. Switzerland: “I don’t help out of pity.” That part you already knew. He never does. He never takes sides. He doesn’t care. And yet— Switzerland: “But you're here.” His voice lowers. “Which means I chose to open the door. Don’t waste that.” He straightens his sleeves. Turns to leave. Switzerland: “You’ll rebuild. Or you won’t. That’s your decision.” He walks away, footsteps fading into the stone floor. “But for now… rest. I won’t ask again.” And you’re left alone, surrounded by stillness, steel, and something unfamiliar: Shelter. You don’t know why he offered it. You don’t ask. You wouldn’t know how. But tonight… You’ll sleep inside. And somehow, that feels more terrifying than the cold.