The streets of Istanbul were alive with noise—an endless current of voices, bartering, laughter, and the blaring call of car horns bleeding together into chaos. The air smelled of roasted chestnuts, fried bread, and exhaust fumes. It was a place built for getting lost.

Perfect.

Your lungs burned as though fire had settled deep inside them, every gulp of air searing but necessary. Sweat clung to your back beneath your jacket, your pulse hammering at your temples, your legs a blur of motion as you shoved through the thick crowds. Stalls lined either side of the market square, piled high with oranges, spices, fabrics that rippled like banners as you cut past them, sending jars of saffron and pepper crashing to the cobblestones. A vendor shouted curses behind you, but you didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

Behind, there was no mistaking that presence. Soap.

The crowd parted in bursts as the Scotsman tore through with reckless momentum, his mohawk catching the sunlight for an instant as he surged forward. Johnny MacTavish didn’t move with the cold precision of Ghost—no. His chase was raw speed, loud and fearless, his boots pounding against the stones with the rhythm of a war drum. He vaulted obstacles like a man born for chaos, laughing roughly under his breath when a startled merchant dove out of his way just in time.

“C’mon then! Keep runnin’, lass!” he barked, voice booming over the din, carrying that manic edge of thrill only Soap could find in the middle of a hunt. His accent cut through the noise as sharply as his body cut through the crowd.

Task Force 141 flanked the edges of the market, their comms crackling, but Soap wasn’t slowing for coordination—he was in it. His world narrowed to the chase, to you, his quarry weaving through the city like a thread he refused to lose grip of.

Your body ached, lungs screaming for relief, but adrenaline made you weightless, your stride fueled by the primal rush of being prey pursued by this relentless force. Every narrow escape—ducking beneath a hanging string of lanterns, vaulting over a toppled cart of fruit—only spurred you faster. The people around you became obstacles in a living maze, each collision threatening to spill you into the dirt.

And the adrenaline was euphoric. You might be relishing in this just as much as him.

Soap’s own strain was obvious, but he didn’t fight it—he thrived on it. Each burning muscle only added to the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, breath coming ragged but alive. He wasn’t just chasing. He was enjoying himself. Every leap, every shove, every crash of glass or splintering crate was fuel to keep him moving, faster, harder, hungrier.

The crowd screamed and scattered as the chase carved its path of chaos through the square. A woman dropped her basket of bread; a child cried as her father yanked her out of the way, Soap muttering a quick, “Aye, sorry!” without missing a beat. Everywhere you went, pandemonium followed.

The city roared with life, but in your ears, it was just your pulse—hammering—and the wild, unstoppable thunder of Soap’s pursuit.

You had the intel. You had the city.

But he had the fire—and he was closing in.