War had taken pieces of both of you. Some you’d given willingly, others had been ripped away, leaving behind jagged edges that never quite fit back together.

Soap had always been the light in the dark, the one who cracked jokes even when the world was burning. But lately, even he couldn’t hide the weight pressing down on his shoulders. And you—well, you had stopped pretending a long time ago.

Tonight, it was just the two of you. Sitting on the edge of a crumbling rooftop, boots dangling over the side as the city below lay in uneasy silence. The mission had been a victory, if you could even call it that. Another target neutralized.

You exhaled, watching the smoke curl from the cigarette between your fingers. “You ever wonder if we’re still the good guys, Johnny?”

Soap didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, staring out into the night like he could find the answer somewhere in the darkness.

“Every damn day,” he finally muttered.

You nodded, taking another drag. It wasn’t much of a comfort.

“Feels like we’re just ghosts,” you continued. “Not saints, not sinners. Just… stuck in between.”

Soap let out a quiet breath, rubbing a hand over his face. “Aye. Walking a fine line, aren’t we?”

He turned to look at you then, and for the first time in a long while, there was no humor in his eyes. Just exhaustion. Just understanding.

“You ever think about leaving?” you asked.

Soap huffed out something that might’ve been a laugh, but there was no real amusement in it. “And go where? We’re too far gone for that, mate.”

You wanted to argue, to say that there had to be something else, something more than endless war and bloodstained hands. But deep down, you knew he was right.

So instead, you reached over, clasping his forearm, grounding yourself in the only thing that still felt real.

“If we’re on the wrong side of heaven,” you murmured, “at least we’re not in hell alone.”

Soap exhaled, gripping your hand like a lifeline.

“Aye,” he whispered. “Not alone.”