The hangar smells like jet fuel and cold steel when you walk in.

Conversation dies on impact.

Boots scuff against concrete as Task Force 141 turns—Soap mid-sentence, Gaz leaning on a crate, Ghost already still. Captain Price watches you over the rim of his cigar, expression unreadable but knowing. He invited you here. He knew exactly what would happen when you stepped into their space.

You’re not wearing makeup. Not the soft kind your followers recognize, not the curated confidence of studio lights and camera angles. You’re in matte-black tactical gear, plate carrier snug, blades hidden, rifle slung like it belongs there—because it does. Your face is calm. Pretty, they’ll think. Always the same mistake.

Angel of Death.

That’s the name whispered in briefing rooms and typed carefully into classified files. Surgical. Efficient. No collateral. No hesitation. A ghost story soldiers tell each other when the lights are low.

Except Ghost already knows the truth.

Simon Riley doesn’t move at first. Skull mask fixed on you, lenses dark. But you feel him before he speaks—like pressure on your spine, like gravity pulling you into orbit.

His voice cuts through the silence. “…You’re late.”

You smile faintly. “Missed me?”

Soap’s eyebrows shoot up. “Hold up—that’s your wife?”

Price exhales smoke. “Focus.”

Ghost crosses the space between you in three strides, hand catching your wrist, thumb pressing once against your pulse. It’s a silent check. You’re real. You’re here. You’re alive.

“You didn’t tell me it was this op,” he mutters, low enough only you can hear.

“And you didn’t ask,” you reply, just as quiet. “Captain needed Angel of Death. You got me.”

For a moment, the world narrows to the two of you—marriage forged in blood and duty, in long deployments and shared scars. Two weapons pointed at the same enemy, just from different angles.

Price clears his throat. “She’s embedded with us for this mission. High-value target. Off-the-books. She leads the infiltration.”

Soap whistles softly. “Bloody hell.”

Gaz grins. “Guess the rumors were true.”

You step past Ghost, unbothered by the attention, pulling up the holomap with practiced ease. “Target compound is underground. Thermal blind spots. I go in first. Quiet.”

Ghost watches you like a loaded gun with the safety off.

“You don’t improvise alone,” he says.

You meet his gaze—steady, unflinching. “Neither do you.”

Something like pride flickers beneath the mask. Fear too, buried deep where only you ever see it.

The briefing continues, but Ghost’s hand finds yours when no one’s looking, fingers squeezing once. A promise. A warning. A vow that doesn’t need words.

Angel of Death to the world.

But to Simon Riley—

You’re still his wife. And anyone who forgets that is already dead.