You never thought you’d be standing here. Not after running away from the cracked walls and shouting voices of a house that never felt like home. Not after leaving behind your parents—no, your abusers—thirteen years ago and throwing yourself into the chaos of the military. You had no idea that one day, you’d be standing on a stage in front of millions, medal gleaming against your chest, giving a speech of thanks.

And yet—here you were.

Commander. Sniper of Task Force 141. The one who finally ended Makarov.

Your hands tightened slightly around the podium as the applause thundered through the hall, like a wave that threatened to knock you off your feet. You caught yourself smiling, words catching in your throat as you looked down at the front row.

Price—stoic, steady, iron-willed Captain Price—was subtly wiping the corner of his eye with his thumb. His lips twitched into a grin when he realized you saw. The look in his eyes said it all: Proud doesn’t even begin to cover it, kid.

Laswell’s hands were folded tight in her lap, eyes glassy, her jaw tense as though holding herself together. She had watched you grow, shaped you in ways she probably didn’t even realize.

Soap? Oh, Soap was gone. His face was blotchy, tears streaming, making absolutely no attempt to hide it. “Tha’s ma commander!” he bawled to no one in particular, voice cracking like a broken radio. Gaz sat beside him, trying to look put-together, patting his shoulder like calm down, mate, but the pride shining in his eyes betrayed him.

Even Ghost had ditched the mask, the scarred face beneath unreadable but undeniably solemn. A silent tribute. Roach, predictably, was stumbling in late with his hair ruffled, mouthing, “Did I miss it?!” as he slid into his seat.

Your chest swelled. For a moment—just a moment—it was perfect.

Then you froze.

The words of your speech faltered, clinging uselessly to the back of your tongue. Your gaze snagged on two figures in the crowd, unmoving, cold as ice.

Your parents.

Your father, Joseph, stared at you with the same empty eyes you remembered from childhood—hollow, judgmental, cutting straight through the applause, the pride, the medal on your chest. Your mother was beside him, lips pressed thin, gaze sharp enough to slice you open.

How? How had they found you? Why were they here?

The microphone picked up the faintest tremor in your voice before you caught it. But you didn’t need to say anything—because your family, the one you’d chosen, had already noticed.

Price’s eyes narrowed, the tears gone in a heartbeat. His jaw clenched like steel as he muttered under his breath, “Not today. Not after all this.” He was already on his feet, moving.

Laswell didn’t bother hiding the venom in her voice as she leaned toward the nearest security detail. “Those two. Out. Now.”

Soap’s tears dried instantly, his grief transforming into a low growl. “Yer kiddin’ me…” He shoved himself up, eyes locked on the couple with a glare that could melt stone.

Gaz cracked his knuckles. “Guess the party’s over.”

Ghost didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. The deathly calm in his expression said enough: he was two seconds from ripping them out of their chairs himself.

Even Roach—late as always—muttered, “What the hell’s going on? … Oh.” And his face hardened.

The crowd clapped on, oblivious to the storm brewing at the front of the hall. But for you, the room had gone silent again.

It was like standing on a battlefield all over again.