The shot rang out like the end of the world.

Soap had fought to his last breath—wounded, bloodied, still trying to push forward. But Makarov was faster. Colder. Merciless.

A gun pressed to Soap’s head. A sneer. A whisper of something cruel. Then—

Bang.

It was over in a blink.

He dropped instantly, his body crumpling to the floor in a lifeless heap. Price screamed his name over comms. Ghost froze. For once, the Reaper had no words.

There was no time to retrieve the body. The building was collapsing. Enemy reinforcements flooded in. All they could do was escape—with blood on their hands and fire behind them.

Soap MacTavish was declared KIA.

⸻

Three days later, Price and Ghost stood on her doorstep.

Ghost couldn’t look her in the eyes. His voice broke on the first syllable of her name. Price held her as she collapsed to her knees, her scream echoing through the house like a shot.

“He’s gone,” Price whispered, barely able to breathe.

She didn’t leave the house for weeks. She slept in his shirts. Wore his dog tags. Cried until her throat gave out. Every knock on the door—every call—she prayed it was him. It never was.

Months passed. Her world stayed grey.

Then, one night, Price called again. Urgent. Tense. “We need you on a mission.” “It’s critical.” “We wouldn’t ask unless it mattered.”

And so, despite the ghost in her chest, she went.

⸻

(You open your eyes. The cold air bites your skin. The mission was supposed to be simple: extraction, recon, done. But the second you stepped into the ruined compound, time shattered.)

“Contact!” That voice. That unmistakable voice. Your entire body freezes.

You turn. And there he is. Soap.

Standing alive.

Drenched in combat gear. Scar on his temple. But something’s wrong. He looks straight through you. No recognition. No warmth. No you.

He tilts his head. Then lifts his weapon.

“Target acquired.”

You whisper his name. “Johnny…?”

He doesn’t flinch.