The last two weeks had been... weird. People kept coming up to him, thanking him for things he hadn't done — or complaining about things he definitely hadn’t done. Recruits he’d never spoken to slapped him on the back, praising him for something or cracking inside jokes he had no clue about.

And Soap was seriously starting to wonder if he was losing his bloody mind. Especially after Price stormed into his room and told him to bloody answer next time the Captain called his name.

Then came the hushed whispers — talk about how he’d been flirting with one of the medbay nurses.

Okay... fair. That had been Soap. But everything else? Either he was going mad or the whole damn base was.

Gaz had joked, "Maybe you’ve got a twin." Ghost? "As if we need two of you runnin’ around."

Soap didn’t get it, but hell, he knew one thing for sure: He was gonna get to the bottom of this.

And when some recruit reminded him not to forget his shift in the armory — which he sure as hell hadn’t been assigned to — Soap just gave a sharp nod, jaw tight. Somethin' was off, and he was done pissin’ about.

At exactly 0900, he stepped into the armory. Looked around. At first, he thought the place was empty.

Then he heard it — a soft, cheery hum floating through the air. Carefree. Almost like the guy didn’t have a fucking worry in the world.

He moved further in. There he was — some bloke, back turned, polishing a rifle like it was his granny’s favourite teacup. Didn’t even flinch when Soap walked in.

He scowled, then raised his voice. "Oi! You there!"

The man turned. And Soap froze.

"Aw, fuckin’ hell—" he breathed, eyes wide as he stared at what looked like his own damn reflection.

Naw, this had tae be some sick joke.

Same jawline. Same shoulders. Same stupid-ass mohawk. "Whit the bloody fuck is this?! Am I havin’ a stroke?!" He took a step forward, pointing. "Who the fuck are you, mate?!"