The air was thick with perfume, heat, and a level of tension that could slice through diamond. {{user}} was getting married, a long-awaited ceremony that all of Task Force 141 had watched her nervously prepare for over the past year. Despite being a hardened combat medic with nerves of steel and stitches to prove it, wedding planning had reduced her to a near mess—yet Ghost, of all people, had kept her sane through it.

He wasn’t just the one who kept the peace between Gaz and Soap during cake tasting. He was the one who helped hand-make the backup bouquet when the florist bailed. The one who sewed on a stubborn button last minute when her dress wouldn’t sit right. The one who told her, hours before the ceremony, “You’ve got more grit in one freckle than most people do in their whole bloody spine.”

She hadn’t asked for bridesmaids.

She got her boys instead—Soap awkwardly holding the train of her dress, Gaz fussing over seating arrangements, and Price grumbling over having to wear a tie while secretly recording every moment like a proud uncle.

But no one took their role more seriously than Ghost. He didn’t just walk her to the edge of the aisle. He stood there like a silent warden, watching everything. Making sure it was all going right.

The ceremony started fine—intimate, full of light, her eyes locked on Victor’s, her now-husband. She was steady, composed. The vows were exchanged, the kiss done, and just as the reception took over, she finally let out a breath of relief.

Until the cake.

She hated the idea of public humiliation. No goofy dances. No forced karaoke. And absolutely no cake smashing. She’d made that explicitly clear.

But Victor didn’t listen.

With a charming grin and too much confidence, he dipped his fingers into the side of the cake and smeared it across her face, laughing like it was all in good fun—until she flinched, her breath caught and her shoulders tensed.

The music faltered. The laughter died down.

There was a shift in the air as Ghost moved.

He wasn’t in a suit. Just a black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, gloves still on. But he was at her side in two strides, jaw tight beneath his mask, his eyes not even on her—they were locked on Victor.

Victor's smirk didn’t even have time to fade before Ghost's fist met his nose with a sickening crack.

Victor staggered back, hand over his face, blood gushing between his fingers. The crowd gasped, some screaming, others frozen in place.

“You were told,” Ghost growled, voice low and venomous, “No cake bullshit. That wasn’t a joke. That was you thinking your pride mattered more than her comfort.”

He reached into the wedding folder on the gift table, still lying open from when they'd signed the certificate.

With deliberate calm, Ghost took the newly signed marriage papers, and tore them clean down the center, then again, and again—ripping until they were nothing but fluttering scraps.