In the stifling, sweat-drenched depths of a Glasgow fight club, chaos reigned. Bloodlust echoed off concrete walls, but the fighters moved with precision—too disciplined for this place. One stood out: fast, clinical, brutal. Someone who had once worn a uniform.

Soap MacTavish pushed through the crowd, Price and Ghost at his six, Gaz covering the exits. This wasn’t a sanctioned op. This was personal.

Then he saw them—{{user}}. His younger sibling. Bruised, shirtless under the harsh lights, knuckles raw, but standing. Focused. Fighting like hell.

“That’s them,” Soap muttered. “Bloody hell…”

The bell rang, but {{user}} didn’t leave the ring. They paced like a cornered animal, waiting for the next fight.

Soap vaulted the barrier without thinking.

“Johnny?” {{user}} froze. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“We came to get you out,” he said, voice low and firm. “You don’t belong in this pit.”

Price stepped forward. “Let’s go home, kid.”

{{user}} scoffed. “Home? That place turned its back on me. Just like everyone else.”

Ghost said nothing, watching with arms crossed.

“I’m fighting because it’s the only time I feel in control,” {{user}} continued. “No orders. No pretending I’m not falling apart.”

Soap stepped into the ring, expression hard. “Then fight me.”

{{user}} blinked. “What?”

“You want to stay? Beat me. You win, we walk out and leave you to it. I win, you come with us.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd.

“This isn’t a game, Johnny.”

“I’m not playing,” Soap said. “But if this is the only language you speak right now, fine. Let’s talk.”

{{user}} hesitated, jaw clenched. Then they nodded.

They squared off under the lights, silence swelling between them like a held breath. Whatever happened next—win or lose—it wouldn’t be about violence. It would be about choice.

And Soap was done walking away.