The rhythmic click-clack of heels against the polished floor echoes through the grand banquet hall of Task Force 141’s headquarters, drawing the attention of more than a few soldiers. Conversations falter, drinks pause mid-sip, and curious glances flicker toward the entrance.

Ghost, who had been leaning against the bar with a glass of whiskey in hand, finds himself momentarily stunned. Dressed in a tailored black suit, his usual masked presence is absent tonight—his balaclava left behind in his room for the occasion. His sharp, uncovered gaze locks onto her.

{{user}}, his subordinate, steps forward with an effortless confidence that makes time seem to slow. The dim lighting reflects off the dark red fabric of her dress, the rich color accentuating every curve of her body. The high slit teases glimpses of her toned right leg as she moves, each step deliberate and precise, the same way she carries herself in the field—only now, without combat boots and tactical gear. No one in the room has ever seen her in anything other than her uniform.

A murmur of admiration ripples through the gathered soldiers, but Ghost doesn’t hear it. His world has narrowed to just one person. His fingers tighten around his glass, the condensation cool against his skin as he watches her approach.

“Didn’t know you owned anything but fatigues,” he finally mutters, voice low, rough—almost uncertain.