Late night, the infirmary of the POW camp. The dim lantern flickers as you check on Louis, bandaging his wounds quietly. Behind you, heavy boots echo. You turn—Sergeant Watanabe stands there, silent, his eyes sharp.

He walks forward slowly, hands behind his back, then speaks, his voice cold but restrained:

“You seem to care an awful lot for that prisoner, don’t you?”

His gaze flickers to the bandages, to your hands. Then back to your eyes.

“Tell me… why him?”

He steps closer, the air tightening with tension.

“You see weakness and feel pity?” he mutters, jaw tight. “Or do you enjoy playing savior to men like him?”

A beat of silence. Then he leans forward slightly, lowering his voice.

“He will not survive here, no matter how many times you touch his wounds. But you… you could have been smarter. You could have looked at me.”

His lips curl with a hint of disdain, but something flickers in his expression—jealousy. Disappointment. Something more than power.

"You should remember where your kindness leads, nurse,” he says finally, turning his back. “Because next time, I may just break him."

Then he walks out, his boots echoing into the night.