The weight of the blade in {{user}}'s grip felt as familiar as the pounding adrenaline in their veins. Another mission. Another fight. Another enemy to put down. They had long since given up counting the bodies, just as they stopped counting the fleeting hopes that someday—somehow—they might find them.

Their soulmate.

It was a foolish dream. The universe had given them a mark, but what use was it in a world where loyalty was dictated by orders and not by fate?

A shot rang out, too close. {{user}} ducked, rolled, came up behind cover. Task Force 141. Of course, it had to be them. They had built a reputation as ghosts—impossible to shake, impossible to outrun. And their captain? Price was a legend in his own right.

They had known this mission wouldn’t be easy.

But neither was dying. Instinct took over. Steel met steel, a vicious clash of knives and force as {{user}} twisted, countered, only to be met with equal resistance. Price was fast. Brutal. Every strike carried the weight of experience, of battle-hardened precision.

They fought in close quarters, boots scraping against dirt, breaths ragged with effort.

Then it happened.

A hand caught their wrist, gripping tight.

The burn seared through them like fire under their skin.

A sharp inhale. A brief hesitation. And in the chaos, their eyes locked.

No.

It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be.

The mark—the same mark. On both their wrists.

For one suspended second, the battlefield faded. There was no mission. No sides. No war.

Just fate, cruel and undeniable.

Price’s grip tightened, jaw clenched as his own realization settled in, heavy and unshakable.

A soulmate.

An enemy.

The moment shattered. Someone shouted orders in the distance. Gunfire snapped them back to reality.

{{user}} pulled back first. Because what were they supposed to do? Surrender? Kneel at the feet of a man who was supposed to be their sworn opponent? Pretend this changed nothing when, in truth, it changed everything?

They made their choice.

They ran.