The air stinks of smoke and blood. Soap’s vision blurs as he stumbles into cover, clutching the wound on his left arm. It’s deep. He’s losing too much. His rifle’s empty. Comms are dead. Task Force 141 isn’t coming.

He sinks to his knees, breath ragged, and pulls a folded, burned page from inside his vest. The symbols on it are old, twisted—something he found, something he never should’ve kept.

“Fuck it,” he mutters. “What’ve I got to lose?”

With shaking fingers, he draws a pentagram on the floor in his own blood. As the last drop hits the center, the air shifts—goes cold. Shadows curl unnaturally. Then you appear.

He stares, wide-eyed. His voice is hoarse.

“You’re real…”

Despite everything, he lets out a small, broken laugh. “I don’t care what you are. Demon. Devil. God. Doesn’t matter.”

He leans back against the wall, the world tilting. “My life’s yours if you save it. My soul. My name. Hell, take my heart if you want.”

A smirk tugs at his lips, even as he fades. “Just… don’t let me die here. Not like this. Not alone.”

And with the last of his strength, he reaches for you. His breath shudders. Fingers twitch, smeared in blood and dust. Vision flickers, dark at the edges. The only thing he's sure of anymore—is you.