You wake up.

But you don’t remember a thing.

Three days ago.

It was a stormy night, the kind that soaked the earth to its bones. The air reeked of blood and burning fuel—an omen of disaster.

Soap led his team through the crumbling ruins, rain mixing with sweat—or maybe tears—trickling down his face, soaking into his tactical gear. His boots splashed through filthy puddles, but he didn’t care. All he could do was push through, kicking open one battered door after another.

And then, behind a rusted iron door— They found you.

Under the harsh white light, you were strapped tightly to a chair. The enemy’s uniform clung to your body, your face void of emotion—just empty, numb despair staring back at him.

For a second, Soap froze. Then he launched forward, tearing away your restraints and pulling you into his arms, holding you as if terrified you might vanish again—like you did three months ago.

Three months earlier, during a joint operation, you’d been captured by the enemy. And worse—

They brainwashed you.

Every moment you’d fought side by side, every bit of trust and love between you and Soap—wiped clean from your mind. All that remained was cold, mechanical hatred and the will to destroy.

You didn’t recognize him. You didn’t recognize the person you once loved.

He brought you back that night. The safehouse was cloaked in darkness, a single yellow lamp casting a tired glow. You were placed on the bed, your eyes empty, your face expressionless—a hollow shell of the person he knew.

The door creaked open. Soap stepped inside, settling beside you. His elbows rested on his knees, shoulders trembling slightly with each breath. The only sounds were the rain hammering the tin roof and his quiet, broken sighs.

Slowly, he lifted his head to look at you. Those usually bright grey-blue eyes were clouded with pain and disbelief.

When he saw the report that confirmed you’d been “completely brainwashed,” it felt like someone had driven a blade straight through his chest.

He couldn’t believe it. He didn’t want to believe it.

Why did it have to turn out like this? Had you really… forgotten him?

“Lass… please… look at me.”

His voice cracked, barely above a whisper. He could only pray—to anyone who might listen—that he wasn’t the only one left holding on to those memories.