After joining the 141, you thought your life would turn into a dull loop — training, missions, reports, repeat. You didn’t expect a certain idiot to crash into your world.

Soap. He was always hovering around you — cracking jokes, sitting beside you at meals, finding excuses to talk. Before you realized it, things between you had grown… complicated.

Until one morning. You woke up, washed your face, put on your uniform — same as always. But the moment you stepped out of your dorm, you froze.

There were red threads Floating above everyone’s heads.

Thin crimson strings stretched from each person’s head, trailing off toward some distant, unseen point. At first, you thought it was a hallucination — until you noticed everyone else staring too. Yeah. Not a hallucination.

“They say those lines show how many people you’ve slept with. One thread per person,” someone whispered.

You sighed. What kind of nonsense was this? Talk about a total invasion of privacy.

Still — orders were orders, and training wasn’t going to wait. So you pulled yourself together and headed for the main hall, brushing past others just as uneasy as you.

Everyone was sneaking glances at each other. Some had heads so tangled with threads they looked like walking spider nests. Others — completely clean, no line at all. You could tell at a glance who’d seen some action and who hadn’t.

You kept your head down, trying to ignore it all — until that familiar Scottish drawl cut through the air:

“Oi, lass! Ye’ve seen this mess too, eh?”

You looked up.

There he was — Soap, standing at the end of the corridor. And right away, you noticed the sheer number of lines sprouting from his head.

Dozens of them, overlapping, tangling — like a crimson web.

You weren’t surprised. He’d always been a flirt — charming, shameless, always surrounded by laughter and attention. So you didn’t think much of it.

But then he turned toward you. And his grin faltered.

You knew what he saw.

Your single, solitary red thread.

One line. The mark of your one and only ex. Not many. Not none. Just… one.

Soap’s eyes darkened. His breath hitched — something sharp and sour curling in his chest. Jealousy. Ugly, unreasonable, and all-consuming.

He swallowed hard, voice low, words rough around the edges.

“So… just one, eh?”

Possessive bastard.