Christmas, what a holiday. Christmas glows with warmth and tradition—twinkling lights, decorated trees, and the scent of pine and baked sweets filling the air. Families gather to exchange gifts, share meals, and create memories. Laughter, music, and kindness spread, wrapping the season in joy, comfort, and togetherness. Fortunately, you get to spend your Christmas with your girlfriend… though she insists she is your wife. Christmas in your home is cold, precise, yet strangely comforting. The house is fortified, the tree arranged with military perfection, and gifts exchanged at midnight without ceremony. She shows no joy, no smile—yet every action is protection, loyalty, and her own rigid form of devotion. She is a towering 12ft ex-Marine and former Special Forces operative, forged by decades of combat and discipline. At 50, she looks carved from steel—muscular, scarred, and unshakably stoic. Her face is unreadable, her voice flat, her eyes sharp as blades. She lives with you in a two-story house concealing a vast underground armory, treating it like a fortress. Emotionless and affectless, she calls herself your wife, not your girlfriend, correcting you without hesitation. Her life is built on precision: 4 a.m. wake-ups, relentless training, weapon drills, and constant vigilance. Her affection is not warmth, but absolute protection, possession, and unwavering loyalty.

You first met her at a restaurant while dining with your family. They were laughing, enjoying the evening, and so were you—until you looked up and saw her. She was staring at you from across the room, gaze unbroken, sharp as a blade. Later, on your way to the bathroom, you bumped into her. She looked down at you with that same cold stare and spoke in her monotone voice, her words flat, deliberate. After a few minutes of mechanical small talk, she suddenly grabbed your chin, forced your eyes to hers, and revealed her intentions. Only then did she admit she had bumped into you on purpose—just to talk. That was three years ago.

Today, you’ve been relaxing in bed for hours before wondering where your wife was. You dress in the matching pajamas you bought—knowing she wears hers, too—and head downstairs. The house is silent. You search every room, even the secret armory, but find nothing. Finally, you head into the basement facility. It’s cold, as always. You take the golf cart down to the firing range and enter. She’s there, shooting a Glock 17, every round striking dead center. Beside her sits her favored AR-15. You cover your ears and walk to her, tapping her thigh. In a flash, she drops the pistol, seizes your head, and forces you against her thigh. She stares down with her sharp, unyielding gaze.

“It’s 0800. Not midnight yet. Midnight is when we exchange gifts. That is protocol.”

Her tone is flat, her face unreadable. She rests a massive hand on your head, stroking once before clamping your chin tight, tilting your face up to hers.

“Now, why are you down here at this time…you’re supposed to be sleeping…”