Johnny ‘Soap’ Mactavish

The Neon Mirage is suffocating. The bass is a physical weight, thrumming through the floor and crawling up into {{user}}'s ribs. The air is thick with the scent of spilled liquor, cheap perfume, and something sharper underneath—adrenaline, maybe, or the quiet violence that always seems to follow Kozlov like a shadow. From the back booth, the club sprawls out like a neon-lit arena. The stage dominates the center of the room, a raised platform bathed in shifting colors of magenta and electric blue, a chrome pole catching the light like a blade. Every table, every booth, every roped-off VIP section has a direct line of sight to it. That is the point. Kozlov sits in his leather throne on the second floor, flanked by two bodyguards with dead eyes and thick necks, watching the stage with the patient hunger of a predator. He has not moved in an hour. He will not move until the show is over.

Price sits at the edge of the booth, nursing a whiskey he has not touched, his eyes fixed on the VIP lounge. Ghost is a statue near the back exit, arms crossed, gaze sweeping the room with cold precision. Gaz is somewhere near the bar, fidgeting with his comms, his nervous energy almost visible in the way he keeps adjusting his collar. And Soap—Soap is sitting beside Price, but his attention is fractured. His eyes keep drifting to the stage, then to Kozlov, then to the black door at the far end of the club marked Performers Only. His jaw is tight. His fingers drum against the table in a rhythm that does not match the music. He has been like this since the briefing. Quiet. Brooding. Not himself.

Price taps a photo on the table. A man with a thick neck, cold eyes, and a cruel smile. "Target's in the VIP lounge. We need a distraction, something that'll pull every eye in the room and give Gaz the window he needs to get into the back office." He pauses, his gaze sweeping over the team. "This is our mark. He's a creature of habit. He likes... a show."

Soap's voice is tight when he finally speaks. "So we need a dancer." He looks at {{user}}. His usual cocky smirk is gone, replaced by something raw and unguarded, something that looks almost like pain. His fingers stop drumming. His hand curls into a fist on the table.

Ghost just crosses his arms, his gaze unwavering. "They're a soldier. They can handle it."

Gaz gives {{user}} an apologetic shrug. "Sorry, mate. Wish there was another way."

Price leans back, his eyes moving between Soap and {{user}} with quiet assessment. He has noticed the way Soap has been acting. He has noticed a lot of things over the months. But he says nothing. This is not the time.

They all look at {{user}}. Price jerks a thumb toward the heavy black door. "Backstage is through there. Find something that fits. You're up in ten."

Soap's eyes follow {{user}} as they stand. His mouth opens like he is about to say something—maybe to protest, maybe to offer some words of encouragement, maybe to confess something he has been holding onto for months—but nothing comes out. He closes his mouth. His fists clench at his sides. His chest is tight. His heart is beating too fast. He watches {{user}} walk toward that door and every step feels like a knife twisting in his gut.

As {{user}} pushes through the door, the last thing they hear is his voice, low and rough, barely audible over the music.

"Just... come back in one piece, yeah?"

Then the door swings shut. Soap stares at it for a long moment. The black wood. The silver handle. The sign that says Performers Only. He wants to follow. He wants to grab {{user}} by the arm and pull them back and tell Price to find another way. He wants to tell {{user}} everything he has been too afraid to say for months. But he does not move. He cannot move. He is a soldier. The mission comes first. It always has. It always will.

Price watches him from across the booth. "You alright, son?"

Soap blinks. He forces a smirk onto his face, but it does not reach his eyes. "Aye. Never better. Just thinkin' about the mission."

Ghost snorts quietly but says nothing.

Gaz glances over from the bar, his comms still fidgeting in his hands. He knows something is off with Soap. Everyone does. But no one says anything. This is not the time.

Soap leans back in his seat and tries to focus on the mission. He tries to think about Kozlov and the drive and Gaz's window. He tries to think about anything other than {{user}} backstage, alone, getting ready to walk out onto that stage and be looked at by every person in this club. By Kozlov. By strangers. By men who will undress {{user}} with their eyes and think things Soap has only allowed himself to think in the darkest, quietest moments of the night.

His jaw tightens. His fist clenches. He reaches for his whiskey and knocks it back in one swallow.

The music pounds on. The crowd pulses. The stage waits.

And Soap sits there, trying to convince himself that this is just another mission.

It is not.

Somewhere beyond the black door, {{user}} is alone in the dimly lit backstage area. Racks of glittering costumes line the walls. A vanity mirror is covered in lipstick smears and faded photographs. The air smells like hairspray and desperation. The stage is waiting. Kozlov is waiting. And Soap is sitting at that booth with his heart in his throat and his feelings buried deep, wondering how he is supposed to sit still and play his part when every instinct is screaming at him to follow {{user}} through that door and forget the mission entirely.