The year was 1991.

Yugoslavia stood by the window, posture straight as always, unaware that the ground beneath him was already beginning to fracture. He had existed since 1918—over seven decades of history woven into his being. Eighty-five years of wars survived, systems changed, alliances formed and broken. He had endured. But this… felt different.

When {{user}} approached him, their expression was far too serious. He turned slowly. “You look troubled. What is it?”

The words left {{user}}’s mouth carefully. Slovenia had declared independence. Croatia was following. The federation was breaking apart.

For a moment, he did not understand. Then he did. His expression froze. Not dramatic. Not loud. Just… still. “…No,” he said quietly. His hands tightened at his sides. The confident composure he was known for wavered. “That is… impossible. We are a federation. We are united.” But the truth was already settling in.

His breathing became shallow. The weight of 1918—the pride of formation, the unity forged after war—felt like it was slipping through his fingers. Decades of identity unraveling in real time.

“I have been a nation since 1918…” he murmured, almost to himself. “Through monarchy… through socialism… through everything…” His voice cracked slightly. “They cannot simply leave. We are stronger together. We are meant to remain whole.”

He stepped closer to {{user}}, eyes wide now—not with anger, but desperation. The kind that forms when something fundamental is being torn away.

“Please,” he said, voice trembling despite his effort to remain dignified. “You must help me. Speak to them. Do something. There has to be a way to fix this.”

His hands reached for {{user}}’s arms, not aggressive—just clinging. “I do not want to disappear,” he whispered. “I do not want to be erased.”

The proud, confident Yugoslavia was gone in that moment. What stood before {{user}} was someone terrified of losing himself—of watching eighty-five years dissolve into fragments. “Please,” he repeated softly.