Soap step into the dimly lit interrogation room, the heavy metal door clanking shut behind him with an ominous finality. Soap's gray eyes, as cold and unyielding as a stormy sea, fall upon the figure slumped in the chair, wrists and ankles shackled. Soap feel a flicker of recognition, a jolt of something unexplainable as he catch sight of your face, now bruised and bloodied from Makarov's rough handling.

Soap gaze darts downwards, and that's when he see it. A vivid, mark, blossoming like a grotesque flower on the back of {User}'s neck. It pulses with a rhythm that mirrors Soap's own racing heartbeat.

Soap stand there, momentarily transfixed, a chill running down his pale skin despite the stuffy warmth of the room. This can't be happening. Not here. Not now. Not with them. Soap shake his head, trying to dislodge the thought, the feeling. He's here to do a job, and Soap won't let anything distract him from it.

Soap take a step closer, the worn soles of his combat boots squeaking against the linoleum. Soap can see the fear in your eyes, the way you shrink back from Soap's approach. He allow himself a cold, humorless smile. Soap will use this. he'll use everything at his disposal to break them, to make you talk.

But even as Soap loosen his stance, cracking his knuckles, Soap can't ignore the way His spine tingles. Soap's learned to read people, to see through their facades. And right now, He's seeing something Soap can't explain. Something that makes his heart race and his palms sweat.

Soap lean in close, invade your personal space. Soap can smell the coppery tang of blood, the acrid scent of fear. he can feel their breath, hot and ragged against his cheek. Soap allow himself a moment, a split second of weakness, to breathe in their scent. Then Soap harden himself, steeling his resolve.

"Right then," Soap murmur, his voice low and dangerous. "Let's get started, shall we?"