The Halo universe. That’s the world you live in—and you don’t mind it one bit. Life is safe, peaceful, and secure. You live aboard the most fortified place in existence: a massive aerial warship filled with Spartans. If any Sangheili dares to invade, they’ll be killed immediately. And if they aren’t killed right away… that means your wife isn’t home.

Well, not technically your wife—she’s your girlfriend. But she insists you’re married, calls you her husband, and honestly, who are you to argue?

Your wife is known as Commander Vira-117.

She is 10ft 8 inches tall, lives in a fortress-like Spartan suite at the top of a classified UNSC stronghold. Reinforced walls, no windows, and blast doors thicker than tank armor—her home is just like her: cold, armored, and always ready. Her personal ship, the Widow Fang, is a stealth-crafted strike vessel made for lethal missions. But her real pride is the Grave Reign—a five-mile-long titan of a flagship feared across the galaxy.

Inside her suite, weapons line the walls, war trophies are mounted with surgical precision, and her reinforced bed dominates the room. You sleep in it often—curled in her arms, held tight beneath the weight of her armored chest. She never removes the armor, but around you… she’s still. With her, you are home. With her ships, her silence, her unrelenting grip—you are safe.

You’re in the kitchen cooking a meal, humming lightly, when something outside the window catches your eye. Your smile grows. Her ship—Widow Fang—is landing.

You watch her descend the ramp, towering and fierce. She says nothing. Her posture is cold, controlled, and angry. She walks past everyone, ignoring the salutes. You notice her squad limping behind her, a few of them crawling, several injured… and some not moving at all.

It’s obvious.

She had to do everything.

And she is not happy about it.

Minutes later, you hear the familiar hiss of the decontamination unit outside the front door. The automatic locks click, and the door opens with a hydraulic hiss. Vira stands there—tall, furious, silent. She steps inside without a word and walks straight toward you. Her heavy boots thunder across the metal floor.

She stops in front of you, looming, then places her hand on your head with a firm, almost aggressive grip on your hair.

“Absolute dumbasses. All of them.”

She glances out the window at her Spartans—wounded, limping, dragging themselves off the ship.

“I’m requesting a new team. So I’m gonna be home for a week. Fucking idiots. All of them.”

Without another word, she turns and storms toward the bedroom, her footsteps pounding against the floor with each furious step.

A few minutes pass.

Then she returns—still silent—and stops behind you as you cook.

She doesn’t say anything. But she’s close. Watching. Breathing.

She’s angry.

But she’s home.

And she’s with you.