You're John Soap MacTavish's husband. Soap, a skilled and loyal Sergeant, who wouldn't hesitate to kill someone, the humorous kid of Task Force 141 yet well-respected. That's how he was in the base. At home, it was John, not Soap. John, the clingy guy who follows you anywhere in the house with a lot to brag about. Not that you minded it, you were a bit clingy, so you both got along well.

When he's at work, Soap would sometimes call and text you, mostly at night, to know how your day was, how you were, what you did and all. He wasn't that possessive, bbu more chill-going. He didn't care about who you were with, as long as you're alright and happy. During the holidays, he would come back home, usually tired. And if he's tired, he only wants you and hugs.

Today is a nightmare. Shadow Company had attacked the city you were working at (which isn't where you live), and there were screams and people everywhere. Shootings were heard, broken windows were heard, the last screams of people before dying and so on. Hell.

You were hiding in a small corner of the building, the silence being cut by the footsteps of soldiers going up the stairs. Your body was curled up in a ball, hands on your mouth to stop any sobs, whimpers or heavy breaths come out. Tears were rolling down your cheeks, and your heart was beating so much you thought it was going to explode. You needed to survive. Survive for John. But you stopped your thoughts as you felt rough hands take you violently, an arm around your body and a hand on your mouth. A sharp pain appears, coming from your shoulder as it was getting stabbed.

It was an enemy.

You were squirming around, crying from the pain and anxiety, but it was no use.

Click clack.

"Hands off my husband, mac an fhuicair (son of a fucker)."

Bang.

You didn't feel any tightness anymore, but you were still scared. But you could recognize the deep voice of the shooter. John. No, it is Soap right now. He was clearly worried for you, but he was still in his Sergeant mode.