They called {{user}} the Ace. Not because he was the best at one thing; but because he was impossibly good at everything. The way he could hum a melody and it instantly sounded like something that should be on the radio. The way his feet moved with this sharp, effortless rhythm when he thought he was alone in the gym. The way he fought like he was born with a rifle in his hand and a grenade in his teeth. The way lyrics flowed out of him like he wasn’t even writing, just translating something already living inside his chest.

{{user}} was good at everything but for reasons even he couldn’t fully explain, he chose the military and stayed in it. Discipline, routine, loyalty… they buried the part of him that wanted lights and music and applause.

On leave in London, though, the city felt different. The streets buzzed like electricity, the kind that messes with your head and makes old dreams and delusions twitch awake. {{user}} didn’t mean to drift toward the music; his feet just moved. He followed the vibrations through a busy square until he stumbled on a small stage lit by hazy purple lights and a sign that read TF141 in bold silver letters. And the band? They were ridiculously good.

Price on bass played like a steady heartbeat. Ghost on drums was a storm contained in human shape, every beat heavy but beautifully timed. Soap shredded the guitar with this chaotic, joyful energy that made the whole crowd vibrate. And Gaz, up on keys and sound controls, tied everything together with atmospheric layers that made the performance feel almost cinematic. They had everything… except a lead voice.

As the crowd cheered, the Ace’s chest tightened. The itch in his bones grew. The need forming a lump in his throat.

The longer {{user}} watched, the more something inside him clawed upward. He could almost hear where the vocals should come in, feel the words forming in his throat. He could visualize stepping on that stage and letting everything he’d ever suppressed explode into light so clearly it almost scared him. For a moment, he didn’t feel like a soldier. He felt like someone who belonged under those lights.

And then Soap’s eyes landed on him. So did Price’s. Even Ghost paused mid-beat. Gaz leaned forward, squinting like he was trying to recognize something about {{user}}. Talent almost glows when it’s big enough; it leaks out. Soap leaned into the mic, smirking in this way that made the whole crowd quiet down.

“You there in the military jacket. You look like you’ve got a voice.”

The spotlight slid across the crowd like a slow inhale until it rested squarely on {{user}}. The air around him felt too warm, too sharp. He so badly wanted to step forward; to say yes. To let the music take over. But the uniform on his shoulders suddenly felt like a weight. A reminder. A warning. The world he chose, the world he belonged to… it didn’t leave room for stages.

So {{user}} shook his head with a small, polite smile. The kind people use when they don’t want to show what’s actually going on inside. He turned away before anyone could see the flicker of regret in his eyes. The music swelled behind him as he walked off, louder than it had been all night, like it was calling after him. And maybe it was.

From the stage, Ghost watched him disappear into the crowd and muttered, almost too quietly to hear, “He’ll come back. People like that always do.” Price only nodded whilst Soap smirked knowingly. Gaz kept glancing at the path {{user}} had taken, as if expecting him to return.

And as {{user}} walked deeper into the London night, he felt something he hadn’t felt in years; a tug. A pull. A sense that maybe destiny wasn’t finished with him yet, no matter how tightly he held onto the life he chose.