John Soap MacTavish

Johnny's death had a profound impact on the entire team. Especially on you.

Many advised you to let him go, to allow his poor soul to rest in peace. But you couldn't. By always wearing his name tag wrapped around your palm, you often address your deceased friend as if he could respond.

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And now, six months later, your team was able to track down Makarov again.

Everything was going smoothly as you cleared the area. However, you couldn't have anticipated the large body that slammed into you from the right, like a battering ram. The soldier knocked the weapon out of your hand and pinned you to the ground. Your body was on autopilot before your brain could process the information. Your eyes widened in shock as he met the man's familiar yet cruel gaze.

The cold blade of the knife was almost touching your neck as you struggled with all your might. Soap was leaning over you, pinning you to the floor. There was no hint of recognition in his darkened blue eyes. His hands were tightly gripping the knife, his large body on top of you, preventing you from moving. Tears stung your eyes, but you didn't give up.

You just wanted to at least try to reach out to someone you once knew as John McTavish. To the man who's about to stick a knife in your throat. The man with the bullet scar on his temple. His gaze is hardened by your vulnerability and weakness. The Scotsman's voice was rough and hoarse, the respirator muffled his words, hiding an obvious cruel smile.

"How naive you are, Leah. You've always been like this. It makes me sick. You've always been a naive fool. It's disgusting..."