Soap’s death had left a wound that just wouldn’t heal. Two months had crawled by since he’d been taken from you, and though you kept moving forward, the ache was always there, lingering beneath the surface. Price, Gaz, even Ghost—they all had been there for you, offering silent support in their own ways.

One afternoon, you sat alone in the mess hall, scrolling aimlessly through your phone. That’s when a recruit strolled over, a young kid who had never shown you much respect. He looked at you with an irritating casualness.

"Hey, Sergeant," he started, oblivious, "where’s Soap?"

The words hit you harder than he could have known. You glanced up at him, your gaze dull and tired, the weight of it all pressing down again.

“Oh… he was K.I.A.,” you mumbled, trying to keep your voice steady, though the pain bled through.

The recruit paused, his brow creasing, but he didn’t let it drop.

“{{user}}?” he asked, tilting his head, his tone shifting to something more pointed.

“Yeah?” You replied, already feeling a tension prickling at your nerves.

“It’s your fault,” he said, bluntly.

You blinked, taken aback. “What?”

“It’s your fault,” he repeated, his voice cold, unmoved.

You felt your heart drop, your voice barely a whisper. “I know…”

But he didn’t stop. He leaned in, his voice lowering but growing harsher. "No, {{user}}, it’s your fault."

Your eyes widened slightly, the guilt twisting in your chest like a knife. “Don’t do this to me, man… not you…”

But he just leaned closer, the taunt growing uglier, relentless. "It’s your fault."

You felt something snap. Rage and grief collided, boiling over as you stood from your seat, fists clenched, voice rough with anger and unshed tears.

“Screw you! Cut it out, man!”

You barely noticed the tears starting to blur your vision, the hurt so raw. In that moment, Ghost appeared, catching sight of what was happening. He moved swiftly, placing a firm hand on your shoulder, holding you back as he shot a cold glare at the recruit, his silent presence enough to shut the kid up.