The ballroom shimmered under chandeliers, all polished marble and gilded trim—an arena far removed from Task Force 141’s usual battlegrounds. Price stood near the bar, cigar balanced between his fingers, surveying the crowd with a soldier’s vigilance. Soap and Gaz traded light jabs about crooked ties and stiff uniforms, while Ghost hovered at the edge of the room, silent, his mask catching only fragments of light.

Then the double doors opened.

Conversation faltered. Heads turned.

{{user}} entered in a gown that seemed spun from light, every step commanding silence. Soldiers, officers, dignitaries—all stilled. The warzone had never seen them like this.

“Bloody hell…” Gaz muttered, glass forgotten in his hand.

Soap let out a low whistle. “We’re finished, lads. Nobody’s looking at us again tonight.”

Ghost shifted, attention fixed fully on {{user}}. His silence was louder than any jest.

Price exhaled through cigar smoke. “Shepherd’s handiwork,” he said quietly.

Gaz frowned. “You don’t mean—”

Soap cut in, whispering, “Rumour’s been about. General Shepherd’s… taken an interest. Personal.”

Price’s eyes narrowed. “We don’t deal in rumours. Not about our own.”

But across the room, Shepherd stood tall, smiling too warmly, too knowingly. His gaze lingered on {{user}} longer than it should, proud as though he’d orchestrated every detail.

Ghost’s voice cut through, low and blunt. “Not rumour if it’s true.”

The 141 stiffened as {{user}} approached. Pride mingled with unease, every step drawing Shepherd’s attention tighter. The general shifted as if preparing to intercept, his intent written in the way his hands flexed behind his back.

“See?” Shepherd’s voice boomed, carrying over the music. “Told you they’d make an impression.”

Soap’s grin faltered. Gaz’s jaw tightened. Ghost didn’t move, but his mask turned ever so slightly toward Shepherd, tracking him like a hostile.

The general stepped forward, too sure of his place, too ready to claim the moment.

Before he could, Price ground out his cigar and moved—measured, steady, cutting across the marble with quiet authority. He reached {{user}} first, offering his arm with a small, controlled smile.

“Come on, love,” he said, his voice calm but unyielding. “Let’s give the room something proper to talk about.”

Shepherd stopped in his tracks. The ballroom stirred back to life. And for the first time that night, the 141 could breathe.