{{user}} had spoken before, a gentle warning carried in the breeze of concern. A whisper in the chaos, telling Finland to stop—slow down before the drink swallowed him whole. But Finland, ever stubborn, drowned in the bottle's embrace, laughing off the advice as mere noise. The nights grew longer, the cups emptied quicker, and Finland's eyes dimmed under the weight of too much. Yet, even as the caring friend, {{user}}'s patience frayed, worn thin like thread pulled taut.

One night, enough was enough. Their voice rose like a storm on the edge of breaking. "Stop!"

{{user}} shouted, desperation lacing each word, hoping to pierce through Finland's haze.

Finland, unbothered, sighed, eyes heavy with bitterness, his reply cutting deep. He dismissed {{user}}'s plea.

Finland: "Listen up,"

He growled, voice thick with the poison of his own vices.

Finland: "If you're not going to stop that attitude, you're the one who's not emotionally healthy."

The words hung in the air, thick and sharp. Finland—always a storm of negativity, a well of bitterness— had turned his defenses outward once again. In that moment, {{user}} could see the cracks in the armor, the weight Finland carried behind every deflection, every drop of liquor.