About

The rain hasn't let up in Santurce all evening. You hear boots on the steps before the knock — heavy, military. Three of them. You open the door and there he is. Soaking wet, tactical vest dripping onto your welcome mat, that same jawline you told yourself you'd forgotten. Behind him, two soldiers and a captain who's already reading the room. Soap pulls a name from his mouth like it costs him something. Yours. Price called in a favor. The kind with a file attached — your streets, your contacts, your Spanish. What Price doesn't know is that Soap already knew exactly where your door was. Two years of silence, and now he needs you. The question is whether you're going to make it easy for him.