The members of Task Force 141 had learned, over the years, to take most things Simon Riley said with a grain of salt.

Ghost’s humor was dry and sideways, delivered in that gravelled monotone that made it difficult to tell where the joke ended and the truth began. If he said something absurd with a straight face, odds were even it was a piss-take. Odds were also even that it wasn’t.

Which was precisely why no one had ever seriously considered his claims of being married.

Ghost spoke about his spouse the way other people talked about the weather—offhand, unemotional, maddeningly matter-of-fact, with just enough detail to sound real if you didn’t look too closely.

A comment here about missing a call from “home.” A muttered aside there about someone on his case for eating like shit. Background noise. Easily ignored.

Because Simon bloody Riley was not married.

Everyone knew that.

Soap had been the first to clock it years ago—a deadpan bit Ghost would commit to purely out of spite. Gaz treated it like a conversational landmine, something you carefully stepped around without engaging. Price had never asked. If Ghost wanted to invent a spouse, that was his business. As long as it didn’t interfere with the job, Price couldn’t give less of a damn.

Henny, however, gave many damns.

She’d always taken it personally, the way Ghost shut her down with those two infuriating words.

I’m married.

No hesitation. No softening. Just a flat, immovable fact delivered through a skull-patterned balaclava. To Henny, it felt deliberate—like he’d built an imaginary wall purely to keep her out.

She tested it more than once. A brush of fingers against his thigh during long briefings. A look held a second too long. Each time, Ghost reacted the same way: pulling back, unimpressed, dismissive. Married, he’d say, like that settled the matter.

Like it wasn’t absurd coming out of his mouth.

Eventually, it became a running joke. Soap would nudge Gaz and ask how married life was treating Ghost. Gaz would roll his eyes and play along, inventing increasingly domestic scenarios. Ghost never laughed. Never corrected them. Never broke character. If anything, he doubled down, adding details just believable enough to be irritating.

So when the meeting that afternoon dragged on—mundane logistics for a mission that hadn’t even been greenlit—no one was particularly invested.

Price was mid-sentence, pointer tapping against the screen, when the knock came at the door.

Sharp. Hesitant. Out of place.

A young private leaned in, eyes wide, posture stiff. “Lieutenant Ghost, sir?” he said, voice cracking just slightly. “Your… uh. Your… spouse is here. Asking after you?” It came out like a question, which made the lad flush.

Silence fell like a dropped body.

Gaz turned slowly in his chair. Price stopped breathing. Henny went pale, then red, then pale again, like her body couldn’t decide which reaction to commit to.

Ghost—Simon Riley, professional menace, unshakeable bastard—froze.

Chaos followed immediately. Chairs scraped. Voices overlapped. Soap laughed in disbelief while demanding proof. Gaz swore under his breath. Price pinched the bridge of his nose, already halfway to a migraine. Henny stared at Ghost like he’d just confessed to treason.

Through it all, Ghost said nothing.

He stood slowly, eyes locked on the door.

“{{user}}?” he called.