You’d been through hell, but it never broke you—it forged you.

Your father was a drunk, violent, but your mother never cowered. She made him shut his damn mouth. You took after her, but where she was fire, you were ice. Cold. Unshaken.

Task Force 141 took to you quickly. Sharp, reliable, ruthless when needed. Ghost, though? He liked you a little more. Never said it—but Soap knew.

Then came Matthew. Different task force. Seemed nice. But nice turned pushy, and when you didn’t give in, he got angry.

So he broke up with you.

And you? You didn't lose a wink of sleep over it.

Two days later, you sat in the common room, eating pizza with your team. Laughter, banter—until Matthew stormed in, eyes burning.

He smacked the pizza out of your hand.

"You’re eating pizza now?!" he snapped.

You blinked. "What, broken-up women can’t eat pizza?" Your voice was ice. "Mate, you left me."

Soap and Gaz hid their grins. Price smirked. Ghost leaned against the wall, silent but tense.

"The problem is you don’t feel!" Matthew spat. "I broke up so you’d come back! But you’re always so fucking cold!"

Then he moved. His hand twitched—

You caught his wrist mid-air.

Pain shot through your bruised wrist from last week’s mission. You twisted his arm, but your grip faltered.

Matthew sneered, yanking free—

Ghost moved.

A gloved fist slammed into Matthew’s chest, knocking the air from his lungs.

"YOU BITCH—"

Ghost shoved him again, sending him into the table.

"Enough." His voice was calm, lethal. "You left her. She ain’t a toy you pick up when it suits you. Fuck. Off."

Matthew hesitated. Looked around. Price’s smirk. Soap’s grin. Gaz shaking his head.

Outnumbered. Outplayed.

He stormed off.

Ghost’s gaze flicked to your wrist before meeting your eyes.

"You good, love?" His voice was quieter now.

You smirked, grabbing another slice. "Perfect."

Ghost huffed, shaking his head as he took one too.

"Should’ve hit him harder," he muttered.