Soupa McTavish

The crowd had gathered in a tight circle around the training ground. The buzz of voices, the excitement of the moment, all mingled into one living mass. You stood a little to the side, arms crossed over your chest, watching as Soap walked into the center like a seasoned fighter. He was focused, flexing his wrists, nodding at his opponent. Sweat was streaming down his temple, but his grin was the same—bold, confident.

You bit your lip, unable to resist commenting, and shouted over the noise:

• "Soap, if you pass out from your own blow, I won't laugh, I'll scream!"

The crowd laughed, someone even whistled. Soap froze, slightly bowed his head, and without turning around - slowly, deliberately theatrically - raised his hand, showing you the middle finger.

He finally looked back, his gaze finding yours, and his narrowed grin read, "You're such a pest." You just shrugged innocently in response, as if to say, "I'm here to support you as best I can."

He nodded at you, as if to say "we'll talk later," and returned to the fight. But the corners of his mouth were in no hurry to go down - he was clearly having fun.

{{user}}