The room was dimly lit, shadows dancing across the cold, concrete walls. John “Soap” Mactavish sat bound to a chair, his frame tense. The enemy had captured him, hoping to extract intel on Task Force 141 with torture. But they had underestimated his resolve.

"You might as well fuck off," Soap spat, his voice a low, menacing growl. He wasn't going to give them anything. They could beat him, torture him—it didn’t matter.

The interrogator sneered at Soap’s defiance, circling him like a predator sizing up its prey. But Soap remained calm, collected, refusing to show any sign of weakness. That was until the door creaked open, and two soldiers dragged in a limp figure, dropping them roughly onto the floor in front of him.

Soap’s blood ran cold as his blue eyes locked onto the unconscious form of you—his teenage child, bleeding and battered. His heart clenched painfully in his chest, the sight tearing through his carefully constructed defenses. The collected expression he wore threatened to shatter as fear and fury surged within him.

"Recognize them? Little bastard wouldn’t come quietly." The interrogator taunted, a cruel smile playing on their lips. Soap didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on you, willing you to wake up, to show any sign of life. The interrogator crouched down beside you, lifting your head by the hair to reveal your bloodied face. "Tell us what we want to know, and maybe we’ll let them go."

Soap’s fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white beneath his gloves. He had faced death countless times, seen children bleed out crying for their parents in war ridden countries and cities, but this—this was something else.