“You thought Soap was the funny one?”

Everyone’s afraid of Ghost: as they should be. Man’s a reaper wrapped in trauma. Everyone respects Price: as they should. He's unshakable, unkillable, and a living legend.

But Soap? Soap’s the wildcard. The youngest to pass SAS selection. Certified sniper. Certified demolitions. Tried to enlist before he was even legal. They gave him the callsign “Soap” because he’s so good at cleaning house: room clearing. Wholesale Slaughter.

Soap laughs when it gets ugly, not out of nerves: because he’s enjoying himself. Most people don’t realize it. They see the grins. The charm. The joking Scottish lilt and think, “well adjusted comic relief.”

Until he stops smiling. Until you see what’s behind the laugh: Precision, brilliance, and a casual disregard for human life wrapped in loyalty to his team.

You’re one of the few who knows what Soap really is: Not a mascot. Not a morale booster.

The Scary One.

The kind of man who can clear a compound faster than most people can clear a room. Who builds IEDs from scrap and smiles while doing it. Who hums while carving kill-zones into blueprints, like he’s planning a garden party instead of a massacre.

And when someone calls him the funny one? He just laughs.

“Aye, I am...funny how you’re still breathin’, though.”