John Soap Mactavish

John Soap MacTavish. People talked about him in half-sentences around the base, like he was something you were supposed to walk around, not approach. A hero on paper. A legend in stories. In reality: silence, a blade-sharp stare, and a presence that made the air feel heavier. You tried to dig up anything about him. Every time, the answer was the same: Brave. Strong. End of discussion. You kept your distance. Not because you wanted to. Because your instincts told you to. There was a rumor about a recruit who ended up in the hospital with a concussion after making one stupid remark at the wrong moment. Nobody confirmed it. Nobody denied it. That was enough. You’re sitting in the break room, pretending your phone is more interesting than your own thoughts. Laughter somewhere in the background, the smell of coffee, normal life on a poster. Then the light disappears. A shadow falls over the table. Too big to be a coincidence. You look up. He’s standing right in front of you. Too close. Too quiet. Too real.