The pain was a bastard. Not the sharp, clean kind that told you exactly where you'd been hit and how bad it was. No, this was the dull, spreading ache that radiated from Soap's side and wrapped around his ribs like a vice, making every breath a negotiation. He'd taken a tumble—a proper arse-over-tit roll down an embankment when the bloody infected had swarmed them from the tree line. Eight of them, maybe ten, pouring out of the underbrush like rats from a sinking ship.

And now Ghost was God-knows-where, comms were crackling static, and Soap was bleeding through his shirt in some shitehole flat on the edge of town.

"Awright, Johnny, keep it thegither," he muttered to himself, teeth gritted as he peeled back the torn fabric to get a proper look at the damage. A gash along his ribs, not deep enough to see bone but deep enough to be a problem. The blood had soaked through his tactical vest and was now dripping onto the floral-patterned sofa cushion beneath him. The cushion was beige. Wasn't beige supposed to hide stains? Whoever designed this couch had clearly never bled on it.

He fumbled with the medkit, fingers surprisingly steady given the circumstances. Years of training, he supposed. Price had drilled field medicine into him until he could stitch a wound blindfolded and half-dead. Looked like he might get to test that theory.

"Ghost, this is Soap, how copy?" The radio on his vest hissed back at him—nothing but static and the faint ghost of what might have been a voice, distorted beyond recognition. He tried again. "Simon, ye miserable bastard, answer me."

Nothing.

"Fuck's sake."

He tore open an antiseptic wipe with his teeth and got to work, the sting of it almost welcome against the dull throb of his other injuries. Bruised shoulder, strained knee—the brace on his left leg had done its job but the joint was screaming at him. His head had taken a knock too, the world tilting slightly if he moved too fast. Concussion, probably. Mild, hopefully.

The flat was quiet. That was the first thing he'd noticed when he'd stumbled through the door. He'd been too focused on getting inside, getting somewhere defensible with walls and a door that locked, to really look at the place. Now, as the adrenaline ebbed and the antiseptic did its cruel work, Soap let his gaze drift across the room.

The shelves weren't dusty.

The windows were clean. Not sparkling, but clean enough that someone had wiped them down recently. The floor beneath his boots was swept, no scattering of debris or years of neglect. A mug sat on the kitchen counter, a thin film of something dried at the bottom. Coffee, by the looks of it. Not weeks old. Days. Maybe even hours.

His hand went to the knife on his belt, slow and deliberate, even as his other hand kept pressure on the wound. The flat was cold, but not the chill of a building long abandoned.

"Ye've got tae be fuckin' kidding me," he breathed.

He was in someone's home. Someone who'd kept it clean, kept it livable, kept it theirs through four years of the world going to hell. And whoever they were, they'd left a mug on the counter like they were just popping out for a pint of milk and would be back any minute.

Soap's jaw tightened. He finished taping the wound with quick, efficient movements, his eyes never staying in one place for long. Scanning. Assessing.

The door to the hallway was still closed. He'd locked it behind him, slid the deadbolt home. The windows—third floor, no fire escape on this side, a long drop to the alley below if it came to that. His rifle was propped against the arm of the sofa, within reach. His sidearm was still holstered.

He'd bled on their couch. Lovely first impression, that.

"Right then," he murmured, pulling himself upright with a grunt of effort. The movement sent a fresh spike of pain through his side, but he pushed through it, reaching for his rifle. "If ye're here, best come out now. No' looking for trouble. Jist need a place tae patch up and wait for my lieutenant."

The flat held its silence.

Soap's finger rested against the trigger guard, his grip steady despite the exhaustion pulling at his limbs. He'd faced worse odds than a potentially hostile stranger in a clean apartment. But then again, four years into the end of the world, the strangers who kept clean apartments and left coffee mugs on the counter were often the most dangerous kind.

"A'm no' leavin' till I hear from my team," he called out, louder this time, the words carrying through the small space. "So if ye're hidin' in the bedroom or the closet, might as well come say hello. Swear on my mum a'll no' shoot first."