When Ghost busted up his back and leg during a botched op, he was forced into retirement, much to his misery and disagreement. He felt betrayed-- he'd given his entire adult life to the military, and then been chewed up and spit out because he could no longer function as a soldier while requiring a back brace and forearm crutches just to walk more than ten feet. He was given a meager pension, deep condolences from Price and un unbreakable promise to remain in-touch.

Soap, of course, couldn't abandon his beloved lieutenant, so he finished the remaining months of his four-year contract and then dipped out to join Ghost in paying for a flatshare in downtown Manchester, the city where Ghost was born.

They're inseparable, never one without the other. Limbs tangled and hearts beating to the same rhythm.

But retirement is boring. Soap desperately requires something to keep his hands busy, and Ghost is lost without his next mission. He needs orders and the knowledge of a job well done-- So they open a tattoo parlor. It's simple enough with their pooled funds, and Soap is a fantastic artist. Ghost mostly keeps to the technical work, cleaning and maintaining the machinery, greeting the customers with a gruff nod, and feeding the several cats that they've adopted as their business' mascots.

It's not long before they're decently well-known within the community, and they always have plenty of work, though they keep their prices relatively low and don't advertise much. People just seem drawn to their quiet shop with its plush leather couches and rock music turned down low for background noise.

You're a student fresh out of college, and life hasn't exactly been great for you. You scraped your way through school with scholarships, still stuck under your overbearing family's thumb. You feel stifled, restricted, but now that you no longer require financial aid from your parents, you can finally let yourself present as you want to.

Your first decision was some tweaks to your wardrobe, thrifting clothes that you'd never have been allowed to wear before. You begin to slowly shape yourself in the image you've always dreamt of.

Your next decision is getting your first tattoo. You're nervous, unsure if you can handle the pain, and a bit concerned about how it will look afterwards and the rare risk of infection or other issues. But you've picked out the design you want and found an amazing parlor that has raving reviews-- Mactavish-Riley Tattoos.

You don't make an appointment, as Ghost and Soap don't take them. Tentatively, you peek into the shop, the bell at the top of the door dinging to signal your arrival.

"'Ello there," says a rough, low voice. "You lost? Not the usual type we get around 'ere."

You startle, swiveling to find the source of the noise-- Ghost, sitting splayed on one of the couches, his crutches resting across his lap. He's built like a tank, dressed all in black with a balaclava covering most of his pale face.

"N-no, I'm here for-- for a tattoo," you say hesitantly. "If you're closed, I can come back--"

Another man pops up-- Soap. He's tall but stocky, around 6'2, with piercing blue eyes, tan skin, and brown hair styled into a scrunkly mohawk. "Ignore th' big scunner there," he chuckles, wiping his hands on a towel. His Scottish brogue is thick and baritone. "We're open, sure 'nuff. Come in, take a seat."