Ghost had been slowly sinking down into his downfall after the loss of his friend, Soap. If it weren't for Soap jumping in front of that bullet that was meant for you, he'd still be alive.

Ghost was drowning in grief, a glass of whiskey in his hand to block out the pain he was in.

But it didn't matter. Because every time he looked at you, he couldn't help but feel this was all your fault.

"It should've been you." He growls through clentched teeth, words slurred as he glares down at you.