Soap MacTavish had favorites—everyone knew that. And his favorite was your brother, a boy of about fourteen. He was loved, spoiled, and showered with affection, the kind of warmth that came effortlessly from Soap. He ruffled his hair, cracked jokes with him, and made sure he never went without.

You, on the other hand, were different. Unusual. Where your brother was vibrant and full of life, you were calm. Quiet. Detached. Some might even say emotionless. While your brother basked in attention, you lingered in the background, never asking for more than what was given.

One day, Soap found himself walking down the hallway toward your room. He had something to ask of you—some errand, some favor. Nothing unusual. But as his knuckles rapped against your door, he hesitated.