You hadn’t meant to get so emotional.

It was just a game, right? That’s what everyone always said. “It’s just a game.” But when the screen faded to black—when you saw Soap slump lifeless in that godforsaken tunnel, a bullet lodged squarely in his skull—it didn’t feel like just a game. It felt like something had been ripped from your chest.

Soap had been your favorite. His humor, his loyalty, your comfort character, the reckless heart and grit of Task Force 141. He meant something to you. Now he was gone and you cried yourself to sleep that night, the controller tossed aside.

When you wake, the air smells like smoke and metal. Your bed is gone. The ceiling? Gone. Instead, it’s dark, a concrete ceiling with beams, boots pounding past you, shouting, orders barked over comms.

You sit up too fast, head spinning. You're in full gear: military boots, tac vest, earpiece buzzing faintly in your ear. A soldier bumps past you and yells, “Oi! You comin’ or what?! Move!” You stagger forward in a daze, eyes catching on a familiar silhouette through the haze. Soap. Alive.

Not yet bleeding. Not yet dying. Just ahead, gun in hand, barking something into his comms, that thick Scottish accent grounding you like a lightning rod. Everything looks so real—no pixels, no lag. Just cold air, adrenaline, a train whooshing past, and a sick feeling in your gut.

It hits you like a jolt to the chest—this is that mission. The tunnel scene. It hasn’t happened yet. And somehow, impossibly, you’re in it. You don’t know if it’s a dream, a glitch in reality, or the universe giving you one shot. But if this is your only chance to save him?

You’re not letting him die again.