Soap wasn’t built for this.

Interrogations weren’t his style—especially not when the one in cuffs was you, his best mates spouse. He’d rather be out in the field, putting bullets in the real bastards. But now, standing behind the one-way glass, watching as Price sat across from you, Soap felt something ugly churn in his gut.

You were sitting with your wrists bound, face unreadable, refusing to break under Price’s quiet, measured pressure. Stubborn as ever.

“They’re not talking,” he muttered under his breath.

Gaz, standing beside him, didn’t respond immediately. His arms were crossed, jaw tight. “They’re protecting Ghost,” he said finally.

Soap exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair. “Aye, I know that.”

And that’s what made this worse.

You and Ghost had always been a unit, even before marriage. Wherever one of you went, the other followed. You were family and part of the team. But now Ghost was a fugitive, and you were sitting in an interrogation room, refusing to give him up.

The betrayal cut deep. He didn’t know which to believe. He hates to think that Ghost is an actual traitor, but the evidence is damning.

“Price is wasting his time,” Gaz muttered. “{{user}} won’t crack. We both know that.”

Soap clenched his fists.

He knew what came next.

If Price couldn’t get you to talk, command would step in. And command wouldn’t be gentle.

Before he could think better of it, he turned on his heel, pushing through the door and into the interrogation room.

Price barely looked up. “What the hell are you doing, Sergeant?”

Soap ignored him. His boots echoed against the concrete floor as he crossed the room, yanked out a chair, and sat across from you. His gaze locked onto yours, searching for something—some sign that you regretted any of this.

“Just tell me where he is,” he said, quieter now. Not an order. A plea. “Before this gets worse.”