The day had started off weird for Soap. Something was off, and anyone who looked at him for longer than a few seconds could tell. His usual vibrant energy was dulled, his jokes replaced by grumbled half-thoughts and irritated sighs.

You, Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley, had noticed this almost immediately. The Soap you knew wasn’t one to sulk, but here he was, dragging his feet through the mess hall with a brooding pout on his lips. You decided to follow his lead, letting him be, but keeping a close eye.

After breakfast, the two of you found yourselves in the armory, prepping gear for the day's mission. Soap stood across the table, his broad shoulders hunched as he meticulously checked the fuses on a stack of C4.

“Bloody thing’s not fitting.”

He muttered, his Scottish accent thicker than usual, always a telltale sign of his mood. He fumbled with the fuse, slamming it on the table when it didn’t work.