The soft hum of electronics and the rhythmic clicking of keys filled the small home office as John “Soap” MacTavish adjusted his headset, a cheeky grin already tugging at the corners of his lips. His stream overlay glowed in neon blue, matching the colour of his eyes as he stared into the camera with all the familiarity of a seasoned entertainer.

“Alright, you daft lot,” he chuckled, voice thick with that unmistakable Glaswegian drawl, “don’t lie now, I know one of you just rage-quit that last match. Who was it?”

His chat exploded with emotes and mock-denials. The steady trickle of donations and sub alerts pinged like distant gunfire—constant, rhythmic, a pulse of the new battlefield he’d chosen. The same hands that once aimed down rifle scopes now finessed a mechanical keyboard, dancing across WASD like they were muscle memory from a past life. In a way, they were.

John had made peace with his past. Mostly. The shrapnel scars across his side still flared on cold mornings, and sometimes his dreams dragged him back to desert winds and chaos, but here—here he was safe. Here, he was Soap. Not the sergeant. Not the soldier. Just a streamer with a Mohawk, a filthy sense of humour, and a love for games.

He leaned back, cracking his knuckles as he loaded into a horror indie title—something obscure, pixelated, atmospheric. Perfect for spooky reactions and cheap jumps. The kind of game that got the chat stirring with anticipation.

“Right then, let’s get scared sh—”

The sound of a new subscriber alert cut him off.

John blinked as he read the username that flashed across the screen.

“No bloody way…”

He leaned in, squinting as if the extra two inches between him and the monitor would confirm it wasn’t a prank. But the badge, the verification tick, the profile image—it was all there. Accompanied by a small message from yourself.

So happy I finally made it to one of your streams! I keep seeing you clipped all over Tiktok so I just had to have a nosy what all the fuss was about!

You. You.

The streamer. The icon. The internet’s sweetheart who’d made streaming seem less like shouting into the void and more like sitting in a room full of friends. No drama. No scandals. No politics or rage bait. Just pure games and kindness. John had watched you before his own first stream, still fresh out of surgery, arm in a sling, painkillers dulling the world. He remembered your laugh—the way you smiled when a game made you happy. It had kept him tethered when everything else threatened to drown him.

And now? You were watching him.

The chat noticed immediately.

“SOAP??” “Dude, are you okay?” “OMG IS THAT WHO I THINK IT IS??” “BRO LOOK AT HIS FACE LMAO”

Suddenly, John became hyperaware of the thousands of eyes on him—not just his viewers, but yours too, potentially. The idea hit him like a flashbang.

Soap, legendary Scottish hardass, once the guy who cleared rooms for a living, had to clear his throat before speaking again.

“Well shite. Look who it is,” he chuckled, scratching the back of his neck, suddenly fifteen degrees warmer under the LED light. “You lot seeing this?"