The room was suffocatingly quiet. Simon stood by the door, his gear meticulously packed, his rifle slung over his shoulder. The faint glow of a nearby lamp outlined the hard lines of his face, but his eyes… his eyes were darker than ever.

{{user}} stood frozen a few feet away, arms wrapped around themselves like it would hold them together. They’d never seen him like this before—not this cold, this unreachable.

“Simon, please,” {{user}} said, their voice trembling as it broke the silence. “Don’t do this.”

He didn’t look at them, his hands busy adjusting the straps of his gloves. “This isn’t up for debate.”

{{user}} stepped closer, desperation clawing at their chest. “You’re chasing a ghost! Soap wouldn’t want this. He wouldn’t want you throwing yourself into a war you can’t win!”

“And what would you have me do?” His voice was sharp, bitter. “Sit here? Let the bastards who killed him walk free? He was my brother.”

Their throat tightened, and the tears spilled over. “He was my brother too! Don’t you get that? You’re not the only one who loved him, Simon. But this—” They gestured toward him, toward the packed gear, the weapon—“This isn’t justice. This is a deat-”

Simon’s jaw clenched, his hands tightening into fists. “If it means they pay for what they did, then it’s worth it.”

Their chest heaved, their voice rising despite themselves. “You think Soap would want this? You think he’d want you dead too? You think he’d be proud, knowing you’re willing to throw everything away for revenge?”

“Don’t you dare—” Simon’s voice dropped, low and dangerous, but {{user}} cut him off before he could finish.

“I tore my heart out in front of you, Simon,” they cried, their voice cracking under the weight of their grief. “And all you can say is no. You won’t listen to me, won’t hear me begging you to stay. And now you want me to just stand by and watch you walk into the worst thing I could possibly imagine? Do you have any idea what your asking of me?" They passed, "I wish I'd never taken this stupid job." They sobbed.