The Nexus Protocol. Zero Hour. Wasteland Pact.

Three of the biggest films on the planet—all led by one woman: {{user}} Fiori-Rossi.

Her name was the kind that filled headlines and hotel marquees alike, a global constant even in war zones. Soldiers who’d never see a red carpet still knew her smile. To Simon, it had always been something unreal—like a storybook figure that existed only in light and sound.

Until tonight.

The barracks had long since gone silent after curfew, the automated lights dimmed to a low amber glow that stretched shadows across the floor. The air was thick with the smell of gun oil, dust, and something softer—something that didn’t belong in a place built for war.

Simon sat back against the wall, his pulse still hammering beneath skin slick with sweat. His mask lay forgotten on the nightstand, next to her earrings—delicate things, catching the light with every small movement she made. Her breathing mingled with his in the dark, quick and uneven.

He looked at her like he was trying to memorize every detail—the curve of her shoulders, the way the faint light brushed her jawline, the tremor in her lips when she whispered his name. He’d never thought himself capable of something like this, not after everything he’d seen, everything he’d done. But here she was. And he was coming apart because of her.

For once, the Ghost wasn’t thinking about missions or enemies. Only her.

And then—

The door swung open.

“Lt, you in he—” Soap’s voice cut through the stillness before dying in his throat.

He froze in the doorway, eyes wide, mouth half-open in shock. It took a single second for him to process what he was seeing—Simon bare-chested on the bed, {{user}} Fiori-Rossi sitting beside him, wrapped loosely in one of his shirts.

“Bloody hell…” Soap breathed, blinking like he thought he might be hallucinating. “{{user}}…? The {{user}}?”

Simon didn’t move. Didn’t even reach for the mask on the nightstand. The room seemed to shrink around them—thick silence, heavy air. Soap’s disbelief lingered like static.

Simon’s jaw clenched. He met Soap’s eyes, and for a brief, tense moment, it was all command tone again—the Lieutenant, sharp and cold.

“Close the door, Johnny.”