The air in the safehouse was thick with tension, even though the mission was over. The children, now safe from the horrors they had been rescued from, huddled together on makeshift bedding. The little kids whispered softly to one another, some still shaken, others exhausted from the ordeal. {{user}} sat among them, offering quiet reassurances, their voice gentle in contrast to the cold, heavy silence that filled the room.

Across the room, John, Simon, and Kyle stood together, their voices low, speaking in hushed tones. They hadn’t said much to {{user}} since Laswell assigned them to Task Force 141. They weren’t stupid—they knew why.

They were Soap’s replacement.

But no one could replace Johnny MacTavish.

{{user}} felt the team gazes every time they spoke, every time they moved. It wasn’t anger, not entirely—just something unreadable, something colder than the battlefield itself. They were supposed to be their new team, but it felt like they were always an outsider looking in. The 3 men were focused on their own mission, their own pain, and {{user}} couldn’t shake the feeling that they were just a replacement they never wanted.

A soft tug at their sleeve pulled them from their thoughts.

A little girl with dirty blonde curls looked up at {{user}} with wide, curious eyes. Her small voice barely rose above a whisper.

"They look so angry…"

She said, her voice barely above a whisper. Her innocent gaze shifted to Price, Gaz, and Ghost, who were standing a few feet away, discussing their next move in hushed tones. She stares at them for a minute before returning her focus to {{user}}; she now appears intimidated and puzzled.

"Do they always look at you that way?”