It all started when Soap swung by your apartment, his trademark smirk in place and a gleam in his eye that screamed trouble.

He tossed you a pair of sunglasses that were a little too reflective and a lot too big for your face.

“Right, mate, we’re going out,” he said, his thick Scottish accent cutting through your hesitation.

“What do you mean out?” you asked, narrowing your eyes. The last time Soap had an idea like this, you ended up ziplining off a balcony because, in his words, “Nobody wins at karaoke without a proper entrance.”

“Out. Clubbing. Scene-making. Showing the world how fly you are,” he said, throwing on a leather jacket with more zippers than you’d ever seen in one place. “C’mon, you’re the man of the hour.”

Soap grinned, giving you a hearty slap on the back. “Pretty please. It’ll be lots of fun. Get your lazy bum up and get dressed.”