#might cry

Soap snorted softly. “Bit dramatic, innit?”

Gaz glanced back. “Yeah. Real morale booster.”

Price didn’t smile. “What is it?”

“Could be nothing,” Gaz said. “Could be—”

“Open it,” Price ordered.

Soap hesitated, then clicked.

The folder expanded.

Four subfiles appeared instantly, as if they’d been waiting.

JOHN PRICE

JOHN MACTAVISH

SIMON RILEY

KYLE GARRICK

Soap felt the room narrow, the hum of the servers suddenly too loud, too close. His own name stared back at him—full name, proper formatting, military designation beneath it. Not a nickname. Not Soap.

His real one.

“Alright,” Gaz said, forcing a laugh that didn’t fool anyone. “That’s… weird.”

Ghost leaned in just enough to see the screen. He didn’t say anything, but Soap felt it—the shift in him. The way he bristled and went still. No one called him Simon Riley anymore. Not the General. Not the Captain. Not even the reports he fills out.

Price exhaled slowly. “Status?”

“Files are locked,” Gaz said, clicking around. “Heavy encryption. But… they’re dated.”

Soap swallowed. “Dated,” he repeated.

Gaz glanced at him, eyes hollow. “Future.”

No one spoke for a beat.

Then Price said, “That’s enough.”

Soap should’ve closed it. He knew he should’ve. But his hand moved before his brain caught up, cursor hovering over the first line.

Not his.

Gaz’s.

​

SUBJECT: GARRICK, KYLE

STATUS: KIA

TIME OF DEATH: 02:14 LOCAL

​

Soap’s breath caught.

“Gaz,” he said quietly.

Gaz leaned closer, the color draining from his face in a way not even Price had seen before. It was startling. “That’s not funny.”

“I’m not joking.”

More text loaded as he scrolled. It’s too late to back down now.

CAUSE: FRIENDLY FIRE DURING EXTRACTION

LOCATION: [REDACTED]

​

The coordinates beneath it made Soap’s stomach twist. He recognised them. Everyone in the room did.

An upcoming op.

Price stepped forward, voice sharp. “That’s classified intel.”

“Soap,” Gaz said, barely audible now. “Scroll.”

Soap did.

Details followed. Radio chatter timestamps. A reference to smoke cover failing. A call for a fallback route that never came.

No shooter named.

Soap closed the file, his hands now shaking.

The room felt colder.

“That’s not a prediction,” Price said. “It’s speculation. Someone’s messing with us.”

For the first time, Ghost spoke. His voice is snippy, shockingly so. “Then why’s it accurate?”

Soap looked at him. “Accurate how?”

Ghost didn’t answer.

Price straightened. “Lock it down. We’ll hand it over to—”

Soap opened another file.

His own.

“Sergeant—” Price warned.

The file loaded slower this time, like it was thinking about it.

​

SUBJECT: MACTAVISH, JOHN

STATUS: KIA

​

Soap felt oddly calm. Like his body had decided panic would be a waste of energy.

No time.

No location.

No cause.

Just a blank space where the details should’ve been.

At the bottom of the page, a single line appeared.

​

SURVIVAL PROBABILITY: 3%

​

Gaz let out a sharp breath. “That’s not how casualty reports work.”

Soap stared at the number. Three percent. Clinical. Impersonal. Like a weather forecast.

Price grabbed the mouse and shut the file down hard. “That’s enough.”

The screen went dark.

For a moment, all Soap could hear was his own heartbeat.

“We don’t know who made this,” Price continued, voice steady, controlled. “Or why. Until we do, this stays classified. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Gaz said automatically, second nature to him—always following orders without question.

Soap nodded.

Ghost said nothing.

They moved fast after that. Drives pulled, charges set, the server room wiped clean as if it had never existed. The exfil went smoothly—too smooth. No contact. No complications.

Back aboard the transport, the team fell into the usual rhythm. Weapons checked. Gear stowed. Someone cracked a joke that Soap didn’t catch.

Ghost sat across from him, mask unreadable as ever. He’s barely spoken since they saw the file, though that’s not too out of the ordinary for him.

Soap caught him looking.

Not at his face.

At his hands.

Soap flexed his fingers slowly, grounding himself. Paper doesn’t decide this, he told himself. Files don’t pull triggers.

Still—

When Soap closed his eyes, he saw the line again.

​

SURVIVAL PROBABILITY: 3%

​

And somewhere deep in his gut, a quiet thought followed:

Three percent isn’t zero.

Not yet.

NEXT CHAPTER >

@sweetdreamingx