You still have Soap’s number saved.

Never changed the contact name.

Never deleted the message thread.

Sometimes, late at night when the barracks are quiet and sleep won’t come, you call the number just to hear his voicemail.

He'd recorded it months before the mission.

You can hear him grin through the words, like he’s trying not to laugh halfway through the recording.

“Leave a message, yeah? If it’s Price, no. If it's Ghost...also no. {{user}}? I'll get back to ye, bonnie, don't ye worry.”

It always ends the same way.

The line beeps.

The silence comes back.

Tonight the call rings longer than usual.

One ring.

Two.

Three.

For a moment you think the number might finally be disconnected.

That maybe this is the night the last little thread tying Soap to the world snaps quietly and disappears.

Then the line connects.

There’s breathing on the other end.

Rough. Uneven.

Soap answers the phone.

“…Hello?”

A pause.

Then softer.

“…Bonnie?”

Quiet disbelief, like he’s smiling and doesn’t understand why.

“…How’d you manage that, eh?”