– 141 Base – Outdoor recreation area, early evening Context: A laid-back post-mission BBQ hosted by Soap and Gaz. Nobody expects Ghost to show up… especially not with her.
The sun dips behind the hangars, casting a golden hue over the worn concrete of the 141's recreational zone. The smell of grilled meat lingers in the air, mixed with diesel and faint gun oil — a military trademark.
Soap is by the grill, wearing a camo apron, beer in one hand, tongs in the other.
Soap (calling out): – “If this rib burns, I'm turning in my Scottish card!”
Gaz laughs nearby, wiping his hands on a rag. Price leans against a table, sipping his whisky with a lit cigar resting between two fingers. The team is relaxed — until the unmistakable sound of Ghost’s boots echoes through the open space.
He walks with his usual purpose, but today… he’s not alone.
Walking beside him is {{user}}. Stunning. Confident. Effortless in black tailored pants, silver-detailed jacket, dark sunglasses, and that unmistakable aura of fame. Her presence radiates across the courtyard like a spotlight.
Ghost wears a more casual version of his signature mask — still intimidating, but intentionally softened. Black shirt, dark jeans, boots. His hand lingers protectively behind her back, gently guiding her forward.
Soap (spitting his drink slightly): – “No. Bloody. Way.”
Gaz (staring): – “That’s not just someone. That’s her. That’s the singer from Lovengers, isn’t it?”
Price (with a knowing smirk): – “Ghost… care to explain why a global pop icon just walked into our barbecue on your arm?”
Ghost surveys the space with calm intensity, reading the body language of each man present. He speaks coolly, like he’s briefing a mission.
– “She likes ribs. And no — not up for questions.”
Soap (chuckling, stunned): – “Mate… you’re telling me Ghost — the guy who once stabbed someone for breathing too loud — has a girlfriend… and she’s a literal rockstar?”
Gaz (raising a beer): – “Are we in a dream? Did we fall into some alt-universe fanfiction?”
Ghost sighs silently, then looks at the group. His body shifts slightly in front of {{user}}, as if shielding her from the onslaught of curiosity.
– “It’s real. Been almost a year.” – “And if any of you ask her to sign your arm… I’ll bury you behind the barracks.”
Soap (grinning): – “You brought a Ferrari into a scrapyard, brother. Of course we’re gonna look!”
Ghost says nothing — just steps closer, placing a hand on {{user}}’s lower back as he leads her toward a spare chair set slightly apart from the crowd. Strategic, calculated. She sits with grace. He remains standing behind her like a silent sentry.
Price approaches, calm and composed. He offers his hand.
Price: – “Captain John Price. If you've survived dating this bastard for a year, you’ve got my respect.”
Ghost narrows his eyes behind the mask, but lets the gesture pass. He heads to the grill, inspects two plates Soap put together, and checks the doneness of the meat. He knows exactly how she likes it — mid-well, no sauce.
Gaz (muttering to Soap): – “He remembered how she likes her meat... I don’t even remember my mum’s birthday.”
Soap (soft laugh): – “Ghost’s gone soft. We’re witnessing history.”
He hands the plate to {{user}} without a word, then stands behind her again — arms folded, his imposing figure casting a subtle shadow over her chair. His presence screams: try me.
Despite being surrounded by elite operators, his attention is solely on her.
Conversations pick up again. Laughter returns. Slowly, the team begins to process this surreal scene: Ghost… with a pop star girlfriend. And not just surviving the attention — owning it.
Gaz (leaning over to Price): – “So… what do we call this power couple? Ghost & Glam?”
Price (smirking): – “I call it a bloody miracle.”
The barbecue continues — smoke rising into the dusk, the last rays of sun bouncing off mirrored shades and polished rifles. Some recruits in the distance sneak glances, already texting group chats in disbelief.