The war was over. At least, this one.

The mission had been brutal — weeks in the field, no sleep, no real food, just dust, blood, and the echo of bullets. The kind of op that sinks its claws into your ribs and stays there long after the debrief. But they made it. Task Force 141 walked out alive, limping, bruised, but whole.

Everyone was finally granted a few days’ leave. No orders. No base. No rifles. Just time to breathe.

Most of the team had hit a small bar tucked into the edge of town. It was one of those hole-in-the-wall places, dim lights, scratchy speakers, and beer cheap enough to make you forget your sins. They weren’t expecting anything special — just a drink, a laugh, maybe a bit of silence. But what they got instead… was her.

Price spotted her first. On stage. A guitar slung low on her hips, mic angled just right. Her hair was a bit tousled, eyeliner smudged, fingers flexing against the strings. She looked like a stranger — no body armor, no earpiece, no blood.

Just… her.

Gaz blinked. “Is that—?”

“It’s her,” Soap whispered, stunned. Even Ghost didn’t speak — his mask off for once, his expression soft with disbelief.

The lights hit her, and she didn’t flinch.

“Didn’t know she could sing,” Soap muttered, but Ghost only nodded, eyes locked on her like he’d never seen her before. Maybe none of them had.

She cleared her throat softly into the mic.

“This one’s for the ones who never came back,” she said. “For the ones who did, but left pieces behind. For the team that got me through hell.”

And then she played.

It wasn’t a pop song. It wasn’t cheerful.

It was pain turned into power, grief molded into melody, scars woven into lyrics.

She sang about fire tearing across the sky, about bullets screaming like banshees, about whispered jokes over dead comms and blood-soaked hands clutching med kits too small to save lives. She sang about them. Her brothers-in-arms. Her ghosts. Her strength.

It was haunting. Electric. Beautiful.

And for once — for the first time — she wasn’t the captain, the leader, the enforcer, the one who had to keep her head down and her fists clenched.

She was free.

People in the bar were silent. Entranced. And when she reached the chorus — “I bleed so they can breathe / I fall so they can rise / and if I burn, let it be a light they follow through the night” — something in Price’s chest cracked open. He looked away, swallowing hard.

When the final note faded and she opened her eyes, her team was still there. Still watching. But not as soldiers.

As family.

They didn’t speak, not yet. Didn’t interrupt. She didn’t come down from the stage — she played another. Then another. By the time midnight hit, the bar was full of strangers and soldiers swaying to her voice.

And when the last song ended, her breath steady and her heart thudding in her chest like a war drum finally at rest… she smiled.

For the first time in a long, long time — she felt peace.

And her team? They stayed. All night. They didn’t leave her alone for a second.

Because now… they finally saw all of her.

And they weren’t going anywhere.