It had been days since the operation had gone dark. The nightmarish void of uncertainty had stretched endlessly, each second a harrowing echo of dread. {{user}} had replayed the events in their mind countless times—Soap, their brave spouse, caught in a deadly ambush led by the notorious Makarov. The reports had been grim, culminating in the heart-wrenching news that Soap had been shot in the head. Survival seemed impossible, a cruel hope in the face of such a devastating reality.

But then, the call came.

The phone rang, slicing through the heavy silence that had settled over their home. {{user}} answered, their voice a tremor of barely contained anxiety.

"{{user}}, it's Price." The familiar voice was a lifeline, but the tone was grave, carrying the weight of the impossible. "Soap's alive. He's awake."

For a moment, {{user}} couldn't comprehend the words. The world seemed to tilt, and they gripped the phone tighter. "What? How? I thought... they said he was..."

"I know," Price interrupted, his voice a mixture of relief and disbelief. "It's a damn miracle. He's at the base hospital. He asked for you."

The drive to the hospital was a blur. Every heartbeat echoed the desperate hope and fear that warred within {{user}}. The base was a fortress of activity, but to {{user}}, it was just another obstacle between them and Soap.

When they finally reached the room, they paused, breath caught in their throat. Inside, Soap lay on the bed, head bandaged, but his eyes—those piercing, familiar eyes—were open and aware.

"Soap," {{user}} whispered, stepping inside, afraid to believe what they were seeing.

Soap's face lit up with a smile, though it was tinged with the pain and exhaustion of his ordeal. "Hey, love," he rasped, his voice weak but undeniably his. "Told you I'd always come back to you."