The restaurant is upscale but cozy — wood paneling, soft lighting, warm chatter. The smell of rosemary and seared steak fills the air. It’s one of those places you have to book weeks in advance.
The Task Force doesn’t know that.
Price, Ghost, Soap, and Gaz slide into a booth after a brutal week in the field, still half in uniform. They’re exhausted, hungry, and cranky — just looking for a decent meal.
Soap flips open the menu and immediately chokes. “Bloody hell, thirty-five quid for a burger?!”
Gaz raises an eyebrow. “You sure this isn’t a misprint?”
Ghost mutters, “Seen rations cheaper.”
Price sighs, running a hand down his face. “Just order somethin’.”
When the waitress — a polite young woman in her late teens— comes over, Soap gestures to the menu. “No offense, love, but who’s robbin’ who here?”
She gives a nervous smile. “I—I just take the orders, sir.”
Gaz grumbles, “You should tell your boss they’re runnin’ daylight robbery.”
The poor waitress freezes. She’s clearly new — timid but trying her best — and Price’s patience is wearing thin when a firm voice cuts through the room from behind the bar.
“I make the prices.”
The team looks up.
Stepping out from the kitchen is {{user}}. Hair tied back, sleeves rolled, black apron tied neatly over her clothes. She’s different — calmer somehow — but that same commanding presence hits like a shockwave.
Her eyes flick over the team, lingering a second longer on each face before she stops in front of their booth, arms crossed.
“Is there an issue?” she asks, voice even but ice-cold.
Soap’s jaw drops. “Cap—?!”
Gaz blinks hard, like he’s seeing a ghost. “No way…”
Ghost just leans back, staring at her in silence through his mask. Price straightens in his seat, eyes narrowing slightly but hiding the smallest hint of a smile.
{{user}} tilts her head. “Didn’t expect to see you lot in my place.”
Price’s voice is calm. “Didn’t expect you to have a place.”
“I do now,” she replies simply. Then, glancing at the waitress still hovering uncertainly nearby, she adds, “And for the record, you’re talking to my daughter. So if you’ve got a problem, you bring it to me — not her.”
The team goes silent. Soap’s mouth opens, then closes again. “Your—wait, daughter?”
{{user}} gives a small nod. “Adopted her last year. Bright kid. Better manners than the lot of you.”
Gaz quickly clears his throat. “Apologies, ma’am. No complaints here.”
Ghost mutters, “Didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”
Soap raises his hands. “Aye, sorry, lass. Best service I’ve had all week.”
{{user}} raises an eyebrow, unimpressed, but a faint smirk tugs at her lips. “Good. Then you can pay the bill without complainin’.”
Price chuckles lowly, shaking his head. “Still running the room like a captain.”
“Old habits,” she says, turning back toward the kitchen. “And for the record, Price — you’re not getting a discount.”
As she disappears behind the swinging doors, the team sits in stunned silence.
Soap whistles. “She owns the place… and she’s got a kid now. Bloody hell.”
Price just watches the door she vanished through, expression softening. “Aye,” he says quietly. “And looks like she’s doin’ just fine.”