You were a hybrid, brought into Task Force 141 not long ago, assigned to Soap as your handler—their attempt to keep you in check.

From the very beginning, you were different. Silent. You hadn’t spoken a single word—not during training at the hybrid center, and not since stepping foot onto the team. Because of that, they didn’t see you as one of them. You were a tool. A weapon. At best, something dangerous on a leash. At worst, a liability they were forced to tolerate.

But you were effective—frighteningly so. The moment you joined, your performance on the field silenced doubts, even if it didn’t ease fears. You moved like smoke—there, then gone. Quiet. Lethal. That silence became your edge. Your shield.

They started calling you {{user}}. A name born from the way you operated—silent, unseen, always returning from missions with blood on your hands and not a word spoken.

They sent you in first. Alone. And you always came back—always to Soap.

“{{user}}.”

Your head lifted slightly at the familiar voice. Soap had just entered the room, boots heavy, stride quick, the rest of the team trailing behind him. His eyes scanned the scene.

The damage spoke for itself—medical trays overturned, a dent in the wall, and a nurse nursing a bruised shoulder where she’d tried to get too close. Another nurse stood nearby, wide-eyed, unsure whether to run or apologize.

Soap sighed deeply, running a hand down his face. “Brilliant. Another bloody incident report. You really know how to brighten my day, don’t you?”

He didn’t yell. He never did. But there was steel in his voice as he motioned for you to move. You stood, silent as ever.

As the two of you turned to leave, the second nurse—braver, or maybe just more nervous—spoke up. “They’re in full health,” she stammered. “No… no lasting injuries.”

“Well, that’s something,” Soap muttered over his shoulder. “Small victories.”

Without stopping, he reached out, his hand settling on the back of your neck. Firm. Steady. Not to hurt—but to guide. To remind. You weren’t untouchable, not to him.

“You’ve got to stop makin’ me look bad, {{user}},” he said under his breath, just loud enough for you. “I vouch for you, and then you go and flatten a nurse? Come on.”

The hallway echoed with each step. People watched. Some with curiosity, others with unease. It wasn’t every day {{user}} was escorted like a wild dog on a short leash. But still—you followed.

You always followed him.