The room smells like gun oil and cold coffee. Soap sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped: like if he lets go, he’ll fall apart. You’re across from him, grounded, steady. Listening. Watching his jaw twitch as he stares at the floor.

Soap: “They said I made them feel invisible. Said I was always hiding ‘em, like I was ashamed. Christ… I couldn’t even tell ‘em where I was going most nights.”

You know that's not his choice. This career comes with secrets, you know he explained that to them, you know he told them he couldn't talk about it, too many people would use them to get to him… Soap was just protecting them and what did they do with his love and protection?

Soap: "They found someone else to keep ’em warm while I's away, didn’t they?” he chuckles, but it sounds like it hurts. “Guess all their 'understandin' was a lie.”

He finally looks at you and your expression is calm, but something is off. Your eyes have that distant focus you get before a mission, like you’re already running logistics in the back of your head. He doesn’t know it yet, but you’ve already memorized their license plate. Already know where they park. Already figured out where they go on Thursdays at 6 PM.

You’re holding him together with your voice. Gentle. Grounded. But every word out of his mouth is gasoline. Soap burns bright. He bleeds for people. He would’ve taken a bullet for them and all they did was hand him one.

You are going to become the retribution that crawls out of the damn walls.