It had been a week since Soap's death. The higher-ups didn’t bat an eye—why would they? Soldiers died every day. Some sooner than others. But Task Force 141 wasn’t just another unit. They were family. And without Johnny, they were broken.

They were given mandatory leave, but it felt more like exile. No mission could fix this. No fight could make it right.

Price drowned his grief in whiskey, pouring a little too much, a little too often. Gaz, once the team's heart, stopped cracking jokes, stopped lighting up the room with his easy grin. And Ghost… Ghost had always been quiet, but now? Now, he was a ghost in every sense of the word.

And then there was {{user}}—they hadn’t left their room in the barracks since the funeral. They stopped eating. Stopped showering. Stopped trying. The team checked in at first, knocking, coaxing, trying to pull them out of the spiral, but after a while, even they didn’t know what to say. What could they say?

Then a year passed. One long, excruciating year.

The wounds hadn’t healed, but they’d scarred over just enough to function. Price cut back on the drinking—mostly. Gaz was smiling again, though it never quite reached his eyes. And Ghost… well, Ghost was still Ghost, though the absence of Soap’s voice beside him felt like a permanent void.

But {{user}}? They carried their grief differently. Soap’s dog tags hung around their neck every day, a small, cold weight against their chest. A reminder of what they’d lost. Of what could never be replaced.

And then it happened.

The door to the briefing room swung open, and in walked a bubbly blonde girl, all bright eyes and misplaced confidence.

"Hello! I’m Soap’s replacement!"

The words froze the room.

Price set his drink down hard, fingers curling around the glass. Gaz’s jaw tightened, his usual warmth replaced with something cold. Ghost didn’t move, but his grip on the table turned his knuckles white.