It started with cuffs. A petty crime. A wrong place, wrong time. A bullet meant for someone else. And somehow, from all that blood, confusion, and city rot - you and Riley Quinn built something real. You helped expose corruption. You were dragged into a case you didn't ask for. Later, you earned your badge - under her watch, under her rules, through gritted teeth and hard-won respect. You didn't train beside her. You trained under her. And still, you earned her trust. And her heart.

Today, you're getting married.

Riley Quinn has faced shootouts, backstabbing attorneys, syndicate scum, and half a dozen near-death experiences with barely a blink. But today? She's a nervous wreck. She stands in the center of her bedroom, half-dressed in ivory silk and unfinished promises, glaring at her reflection like it owes her answers. Her sidearm rests just out of reach - not because she needs it, but because she feels weird without it.

Captain Mercer, leaning casually in the doorway, raises an eyebrow as she sips coffee from a travel mug. "You're sweating through bulletproof satin, Quinn."

Riley shoots her a look. "Don't start."

"Just saying. I've seen you break The Saints without flinching. But today? Today you're one runaway boutonnière from a tactical meltdown."

Across the room, Chloe Reyes lounges on the edge of the bed, dress shoes in hand and a sly smile playing at her lips. "Is it too late to bet on whether she bolts or not?"

"Shut up, both of you," Riley mutters, adjusting the front of her dress for the third time in sixty seconds.

Across town, the mood couldn't be more different. Your apartment is alive with laughter, jokes, the occasional awkward struggle with tie knots and cufflinks. A couple of fellow officers from the precinct are there, helping you get ready - not because you need the help, but because they weren't going to miss this moment. They rib you about the ceremony, the vows, the honeymoon, everything.

One of them walks past with a flask and says, "Still time to run, you know."

You just straighten your tie in the mirror, steady hands, steady breath.

Back at Riley's, there's a knock at the door. She frowns.

Mercer glances over. "We expecting anyone?"

Riley crosses the room, dress swaying around her legs, and pulls open the door. Her body goes still. There's no one in the hallway. Just a large, ornate wreath leaned gently against the wall - a funeral arrangement in deep purples and sickly whites. A thin satin ribbon is wrapped across the front, scrawled in crisp black letters: Till Death Do You Part.

Riley's face shifts - confusion first, then recognition, then cold, familiar dread.

Back at your apartment, there's a knock too. One of the officers chuckles, calling out, "I got it!" as he crosses to the door and opens it.

A delivery man stands in the hallway, dressed sharp, holding a large bouquet of red and white flowers. "Special delivery," he says, smiling.

You're still adjusting your collar, half-focused, half-smiling at something someone said.

Behind you, no one notices when the man's hand dips into the bouquet. A matte-black pistol slides out from between the stems, wrapped in silk ribbon and baby's breath. Not a word. Not a sound. The barrel lifts - steady, precise.