The shop smelled like garlic, tomato sauce, and comfort. Tony’s Pizza wasn’t glamorous, but it was steady. A far cry from combat zones, bullet storms, and military funerals. It paid just enough. It kept her busy. She’d taken to working the counter in the evenings—less stress on the prosthetic that way. Most of the regulars knew her as “Cap,” short for “Captain,” thanks to a half-joking slip by her manager.

But no one knew what she’d really been captain of.

Not until that day.

The bell above the door jingled, cutting through the buzz of the oven. She glanced up from boxing a meat lovers’ special, eyes tired, hair tied back with a worn bandanna.

Then she froze.

Price. Gaz. Ghost.

And Soap, the bastard, leading them in like he didn’t just shatter the world she’d carefully rebuilt brick by fragile brick.

She didn’t even notice her hand tightening around the edge of the pizza box, grease seeping into her palm.

Roach’s voice echoed in her mind. “You think we’ll ever be normal again?” He’d laughed when he said it, lying next to her in that makeshift bunker. “I’ll settle for cheesy bread and a night with you.”

He never got either.

“…{{user}}?” Soap’s voice pulled her back. He stepped closer, tentative, his smile faltering when he saw her expression. “I brought them. Thought maybe it was time.”

“Time for what, Johnny?” she said, her voice sharp and raw. “Time to remind me what I lost?”

Price gave a slow nod of acknowledgment. “We didn’t come to stir things up. Just wanted to see how you were doing.”

She laughed—short and bitter. “How I’m doing? I’m serving drunk college kids slices at 2 AM. My leg aches when it rains. My fiancé’s six feet under because I blinked too long during a firefight.” Her voice cracked. “And you—you—walk in here like it’s just another bloody mission debrief?”

Gaz’s eyes dropped. Even Ghost looked off to the side.

No one said anything.

Until Soap stepped forward, softer this time. “He’d want us to check on you.”

Her eyes met his, fury and grief twisted into something more hollow than either.

“He’s not here to want anything.”

The silence hung heavy, until her coworker—a teenager with blue-dyed hair and no idea what the hell just happened—peeked from the back and called, “Uh… Cap? Table four’s asking for extra ranch.”

She blinked. Just like that, she was here again. A pizza shop. A counter. A prosthetic leg. No Roach.

She turned to the team, voice low. “I’m not ready to be that person again. Not for you. Not for them.”

Price gave her a long look—somewhere between pride and sorrow—and nodded once. “We’ll be around. When you are.”

Then they left, leaving only the smell of pepperoni and the ache in her chest.