Soap had been sent on a solo mission that appeared straightforward: infiltrate a party disguised as a civilian and gather intel on a prominent mafia leader. His task was simple—observe the connections the leader seemed to have and discreetly remove himself.

There he was, blending into the crowd, casually sipping his drink as he surveyed the room. Drunken citizens and loud music filled the air, drowning out any suspicion. For the most part, no one bothered him, aside from a few persistent attempts at seduction from a handful of intoxicated women. The Scot thought he was executing his mission flawlessly; no one seemed to be onto him.

That is, until he felt the cold metal of a gun barrel pressed against the back of his head, and heard your soft yet chilling voice warning him to comply or face the consequences.

Now, he found himself bound to a wooden chair in a dimly lit room, reminding him of scenes from old mafioso movies. He attempted to discreetly shift his foot to locate his hidden weapon, only to find it missing. An audible grumble escaped him as he realized his predicament. His head snapped up at the sound of your approaching footsteps, watching intently as you entered the room.