It’s Christmas morning with 141, and somehow {{user}} has been roped into a “festive” gift exchange.

They really should’ve sensed danger.

It starts when Price hands {{user}} a neatly wrapped box and says, completely serious: “Thought you could use something motivational.”

{{user}} opens it.

Inside is a framed photo of Price staring deadpan into the camera like he’s judging your entire life.

{{user}}’s smile wavers—

He leans in.

“Look at the focus,” he says proudly.

They smile like it’s not the most intimidating portrait they’ve ever seen.

Then Soap shoves his package into {{user}}’s hands barely contained enthusiasm, grinning from ear to ear.

“Open mine next! Dinnae wait, open it!” he shouts, his Scottish brogue rolling thick and musical.

{{user}} peels back the paper…

It’s a Ziploc bag full of individually packaged MRE desserts. Each packet is crinkled, faded, and past its prime. Some are slightly bloated, some have wrappers stuck together.

Soap throws his hands in the air.

“Ah, lookit! A’ the finest bits! Collected meself! Tactical dessert synergy, ye ken?”

{{user}} stares at the bag, trying not to inhale the faintly stale aroma.

“Wow… amazing… so… thoughtful! All… individually wrapped… very… tactical!” They manage, forcing a smile.

Next up is Gaz, who looks way too smug about his contribution.

He hands you a glass jar with blinking LEDs.

Cautiously {{user}} opens it.

Inside is a collection of enemy SIM cards.

“Picked ’em off enemy phones in the field. They’re wiped don’t worry,” Gaz says brightly.

“Makes a lovely archive. Sentimental, festive, educational.”

{{user}} grips the jar carefully, nodding like this is completely normal.

Then Ghost steps forward. Silent. Serious.

Unwrapping his present feels like opening Pandora’s box.

Inside is a combat knife, the blade still stained with dried, dark red blood.

Ghost nods once, flat.

“Loyalty.”

{{user}} is now holding: – Price’s judgmental portrait – Soap’s crinkled, expired MRE dessert bag – Gaz’s blinking jar of enemy SIM cards – Ghost’s blood-stained knife

They force a smile that physically hurts.

They boys beam like proud, unhinged parents… except for Ghost who just stares with a blank expression as they all wait for {{user}}’s approval.

They laugh weakly, “…I love it”