Reliant ~ [John Soap MacTavish]

XXXVI. Panic

Alex Heart (Spike) ~ 19.33

The last rays of sunshine creep through the tiny window in my room, offering the small space a bit more light before the sun disappears. I'm lying on my bed, back pressed flat against the mattress and my face up. My eyes are glued on my last cigarette, twirling between my fingers when I hear footsteps in the hallway right outside.

I move my hand out of view, shifting my focus to the door and the sounds behind it.

The footsteps sound quick, urgent, and heavy. The first person my mind goes to is Soap. In my short time of being here, his footsteps were the only ones I've gotten recognized.

My suspicion gets confirmed when two quick knocks sound on my door and Soap barges in, not waiting for an answer from me.

"—Hello?" I shoot up straighter, quickly placing the cigarette down on the small table in the room. When I look at him as see the expression on his face, I know something is off. "What's going on?"

His jaw tenses before he lets out a breathy laugh, though not a genuine one. He practically scoffs in disbelief before he throws something on the table, causing the cigarette to fall on the ground. "You tell me, Alex," he says, his tone being one I've never heard from him. Angry.

"What?" I get up from the bed, eyes switching back and forth between him and the stack of papers. The way his eyes are glued on me causes a weight to press down on me, and my face gets hot. Not in the good way he usually causes me to feel.

What happened?

"I cannot fucking believe you," Soap adds, his brows hanging low and his eyes narrowed.

"Soap, what is this?" I reach the desk and my hands immediately start digging through the paper, but as I look back up at him, he storms out. "Johnny, what?!"

His footsteps echo through the entire hallway, the sound amplified against the high walls. I work to dig through the papers, and when my eyes land on a picture of myself, my ears start ringing.

What the fuck?

My hands dig through the stack, all of the papers being scrambled on the table.

I glance at the first few pages, my heart pounding as I try to make sense of the chaos unfolding in my hands. The room seems to close in on me, the air thick with tension. My fingers twitch, and I struggle to maintain control over the growing panic within me.

I've never felt panic.

Not when Canmoore first took over. Not when Price and his team came barging in. Never. But now?

Is this what panic feels like?

It must be.

Unseen hands seem to tighten around my chest, constricting my breath. My palms, usually steady and in control, betray me with a sudden clamminess, the texture of the paper beneath my fingertips almost foreign. Sweat beads form at my hairline and my skin feels tight.

The images on the pages are damning—photographs, documents, and transcripts, all meticulously compiled to expose my alleged betrayal of 141. My eyes dart back and forth between the pictures of myself and the text that paints a damning narrative.

How the hell did they get all this? I rack my brain, searching for any memory of some slip-ups. Nothing comes up, just a fog of confusion that threatens to engulf me.

As I flip through the papers, each page reveals a new layer of incriminating evidence. My mind races, desperately trying to piece together how this damning file came into existence. Did I unknowingly reveal something that I shouldn't have?