John "Soap" MacTavish is good at a lot of things as a soldier. But texting? Oh boy, that wasn’t exactly his strong suit. He was more comfortable with a rifle in his hands than a smartphone. Yet, as he sat in the dimly lit pub, nursing a pint of beer after a grueling day, he pulled out his phone to send a quick message to Ghost.

Got the package. Meet me at the usual spot.

He tapped the message out quickly, not bothering to double-check the number before hitting send. His mind was already elsewhere, running through plans for tomorrow’s op. The screen flickered as the message went through, and Soap slipped the phone back into his pocket, taking a long swig from his drink.

Moments later, his phone buzzed. He frowned, expecting a curt reply from Ghost. Instead, the message on the screen read:

Um... I think you have the wrong number.

Soap blinked, realizing his mistake. He had sent the message to a random number. Cursing under his breath, he typed out an apology:

Sorry. Just a mix-up.