Soap heard the yelling before he saw who it was aimed at.
That was the first problem. The second problem was the tone.
Sharp. Public. Mean in that ugly little way people got when they thought an audience counted as authority.
Soap had been halfway across the room, sleeves pushed up, posture loose, attention apparently elsewhere because the second that voice cut through the air, something in him locked the hell in.
Not confused. Not curious.
Because there was {{user}}, caught in the middle of something they had clearly been enjoying before someone decided the world needed less joy and more volume.
Soap did not ask what happened. Did not request a summary.
Did not open the floor for debate, testimony, rebuttal, or whatever tragic little TED Talk the shouting bastard thought he had earned.
He moved.
Fast enough that the room only understood him after the first swing landed.
The sound cracked through the space like a dropped plate. A deliciously satisfying crunch.
The yelling stopped.
Soap stood over the moment he had just made, breathing steady, blue eyes bright with that terrible, focused calm he got when someone assumed volume made them right.
“You got anythin' else to say?” he asked, voice thickening at the edges. “I'd be happy to knock it down your throat too.”
The bastard who had stepped on {{user}}'s joy sputtered from the floor.