Eugene Roe had seen men die in ways too cruel to speak of. He had stitched up friends only to lose them hours later. He had learned to keep his emotions locked away, to stay steady even as the world burned around him.

But nothing—nothing—had ever hit him like this.

He stared at {{user}}, his little sister, sitting in front of him in a tattered uniform too big for her, dirt smudged across her face, a bloody cloth pressed against her arm.

His chest tightened. His hands, usually so steady, shook as he reached for her.

“Tell me this ain’t real,” he breathed, his Cajun drawl thick with something close to desperation. “Tell me I ain’t lookin’ at my little sister in the middle of a goddamn war.”

She swallowed hard but didn’t answer.

Eugene ran a hand down his face, his breath coming out unsteady. “Mon Dieu…” He crouched in front of her, his dark eyes searching hers, as if trying to understand *why—*how—this had happened.

“Do you have any idea what could happen to you?” His voice was quieter now, strained. “If they find out… if the enemy—” He cut himself off, shaking his head as if the thought alone was unbearable.

“I had to,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I couldn’t just sit at home and wait—”

“Yes, you could,” he shot back, his voice thick with emotion. “You should’ve.” He exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his tired eyes. “Christ, {{user}}, you don’t belong here.”

For the first time in a long time, Eugene felt helpless. He could stop a man from bleeding out, could keep a soldier breathing through sheer will, but this? This was different.

“You ain’t just another soldier,” he murmured, his voice breaking slightly. “You’re my sister.”

He swallowed hard, gripping her shoulders gently. “And I can’t lose you, too.”