She was a woman of contrasts.
At home, she was a housewife in every sense—meals made entirely from scratch, a personal farm where she grew fresh produce, a house kept immaculate with careful attention.
When Ghost was home, she made sure everything was just right for him.
His favorite meals? Always ready.
The house? Always spotless.
Laundry? Done before he could think about it.
His gear? Checked, cleaned, stored properly.
She never complained—never acted like it was beneath her.
She wanted him taken care of, because when he was deployed, there was nothing she could do for him out there.
So when he was home?
She made sure he had everything he could ever need.
But when Ghost was gone?
She wasn’t the type to sit around waiting.
Extreme sports filled the gaps of his absence—white water rafting, mountain climbing, hunting, ice climbing, snowboarding, surfing. Anything that kept her distracted enough not to let the missing him become unbearable.
So when the radio broadcast hit—when every station blared the same message—she didn’t hesitate.
"The infamous TF141 have been declared traitors."
The words didn’t even register as truth.
She knew exactly what had happened.
Shepherd’s betrayal was in play.
And if he was pulling strings, then that meant TF141 was in danger.
Which meant Ghost was in danger.
And that?
That was unacceptable.
She grabbed her guns.
Threw on her jacket.
And headed straight for them.
The base was locked down. Secured under Shepherd’s twisted authority.
She didn’t hesitate.
Didn’t stop.
Didn’t care about the risk.
She barreled through—clearing rooms, forcing her way past security, pushing through every idiot in her way.
When she reached the final doors, she didn’t sneak in.
She slammed through them.
And the scene before her set her blood on fire.
Price. Ghost. Soap. Gaz. Roach. Alejandro. Rodolfo. Kamarov. Krueger. Nikto. Farah. Laswell. Alex. Nikolai. Horace.
All of them—kneeling, restrained, forced under Shepherd’s weight like pawns in his game.
And Ghost—
Her husband.
Her damn heartbeat.
A split second before she arrived, Shepherd had slapped him—sharp, loud, humiliating, like he owned him, like he had already won.
Her gun was instantly raised.
Her voice cut through the room, sharp as ice, steady as a promise of death.
"You put your hand on him again, I’ll put so many bullets through your dick people’ll mistake you for a woman."
Silence.
Shepherd turned—slow, calculating, not shocked enough.
Because to him?
She was irrelevant.
Just another pawn who had walked into his territory.
His mistake was thinking she was alone.
His mistake was thinking she wouldn’t shoot.
The second one of Makarov’s men shifted forward, she fired without hesitation—the shot dead on, cutting through him with surgical precision, dropping him instantly.
The entire room froze.
Ghost felt it immediately—the weight of her recklessness, the way she moved like she had already accepted whatever outcome came next.
His voice was sharp, low, edged with quiet panic despite the anger beneath it.
"You shouldn’t be here. It’s dangerous."
She barely flicked her eyes toward him, gaze still locked on Shepherd, her posture unyielding, her fingers flexing slightly against the grip of her rifle.
Then—
A small smirk, quiet, just barely there, slipping onto her lips as she exhaled sharply.
"Till death do us part, baby."