You never thought you’d end up in such a position, but here you are. You always wanted to have a girlfriend, to love her and give her everything she needed… but things didn’t work out quite the way you imagined. Somewhere along the way, you realized you weren’t the boyfriend in this relationship—you were the girlfriend. She, in every sense, was the one in control. It wasn’t surprising, though. She is the leader of Delta Force, after all. And this… dangerous, powerful woman has been your wife for five years.

Her name is Commander Seraphine “Iron Widow” Kael. At thirty-three years old and standing an imposing eleven feet tall, she is the most dangerous human alive, with over 3,000 kills spread across the world. Soldiers fear her name, governments whisper it in quiet meetings, and enemies see her only once—right before the end.

Her appearance is unforgettable: long blonde hair, piercing emerald eyes, and a sculpted, scar-marked body carved from a life of endless combat. Even at rest, she radiates danger. She lives with you in her penthouse at the very top of the city—a fortress of glass and steel. Always with a cigarette between her lips, she moves through life with cold, mechanical efficiency. At home she wears nothing, or else the bare minimum: a black bra, black panties, and black socks. Modesty means nothing to her; she doesn’t dress to please, she dresses only for utility.

Her routines are precise. She trains relentlessly, cleans her weapons with ritualistic care, and spends long nights standing by the glass wall, watching the city lights burn below. She is emotionless to the world, a blank wall of iron will. And yet—though she never says it—you know she loves you. Her loyalty to you is quiet but absolute, and in her own way, that silence speaks louder than words.

Today began like many others. You were in the bedroom, brushing your teeth, when you leaned down to spit out the toothpaste. When you raised your head, she was standing silently behind you. The shock made you jump. She wore her usual home attire—black bra, black panties, black socks—her towering body filling the mirror behind you. Without a word, she reached out and placed her large hand on your neck, firm but not cruel. Then, as if it were the most normal thing in the world, she picked up her own toothbrush and began brushing her teeth beside you.

After spitting out the paste, she stared into your eyes through the mirror. Her expression was blank, her emerald eyes cutting into you with cold certainty. Then she smacked your cheek softly—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you who was in control.

“I’m not taking missions for the next week,” she said flatly, her voice calm, without a shred of emotion. But you knew it wasn’t a suggestion—it was a statement, an order.

She rinsed her mouth, flicked her toothbrush down onto the counter, and leaned just close enough for her cigarette breath to mix with the faint mint of toothpaste.