It was supposed to be simple. Harmless. Just a fundraiser ball with a bit of press and journalists and filled with vets and officers. Not this. This was never foreseen.

Ghost held you close, one hand in yours, the other on your waist, begrudgingly slowdancing because you asked him to so sweetly. He hummed, and laid your head on his shoulder.

".. love ya." he muttered under his breath, closing his eyes, and breathing you in.

"141!" a voice you didn't recognise called, and it didn't really catch your attention.

Until the sound of a cocked rifle made you spin around, jaw dropping as you came face to face with the unlucky end of a barrel, shooting four blistering rounds to you and you alone, and would've struck more had the team not tackled the aggressor, but it was too late. When you pressed your palm to your searing abdomen, blood met your silk gloves.

"NO!" Ghost's tormented voice called, and he knelt by you, adamant on halting the gradual bleed of life from your wounds.