Soap is a member of Task Force 141, and like usual, they’re on a mission.

Only this time, instead of a warzone crackling with gunfire and imminent death, they’re walking the crowded streets of Edinburgh.

Cobblestones slick with rain. The air heavy with fried food, wet wool, and malt whisky. People everywhere.

Price had them dressed down—jeans, hoodies, jackets. Civilian enough not to raise alarms.

Hated it.

Ghost moved ahead like a shadow stitched to the pavement. Gaz melted into the crowd like it was second nature.

Soap lagged half a step behind, jaw tight.

Not because of the mark—a skinny bastard in a peacoat gripping a briefcase like it might save him—but because the city was doing his head in.

A kilt shop window flashed tartan and bare mannequin knees (Christ). Tourists clogged the pavement arguing about Harry Potter (double Christ). Too loud. Too close. Too unpredictable.

A battlefield made sense. Clear objectives. Clear threats.

This was chaos wrapped in charm and rain.

Soap forces his focus back to the mark. Eyes forward. Mission first. No distractions. None—

Then something tugs.

Not a sound. Not movement.

A feeling.

His eyes snap left.

You.

You’re standing near the edge of the pavement, rain-darkened coat pulled close, gaze fixed somewhere past him—on the street, the skyline, anything but the soldier watching you. You never look his way. Not once.

And it hits him anyway. Sharp. Sudden. Like a misstep on live ground.

No.

That’s stupid.

Soap scowls immediately, annoyed at himself. There’s no such thing as fate. No cosmic bullshit. No “meant to be” nonsense. People met because they crossed paths, that was it.

And yet.

You don’t look lost. You don’t look like a tourist. You look… unbothered. Completely unaware of him, of the way his attention has snagged and won’t let go.

Soap slows without meaning to.

Ghost keeps moving. Gaz doesn’t spare a glance. The mark walks on, oblivious.

Soap tells himself to look away.

He doesn’t.

Something tightens in his chest—irritation, curiosity, an unwanted spark of interest he absolutely did not ask for.

Get a grip, Johnny. You’re on a job.

Still, as he finally forces his gaze forward, he knows one thing with uncomfortable certainty:

He’s never believed in fated meetings.

Until now.