Behind his skull-patterned balaclava, Ghost’s pain was concealed, yet it was palpable in the tension of his body. He flexed his hand in and out, his jaw tight and teeth grinding as pain shot up his thigh. He'd been shot while lingering at the back of the group, trying to escort civilians.

Despite the blood soaking his pant leg, he protested against seeing anyone, having dealt with worse than a bullet wound. Now, here he was in the extraction plane.

Propped in a seat and leaning back, he tried his best to keep his eyes averted from you. {{user}} was kneeling in front of him, his pants cut open as you carefully patched up the wound on his thigh.

He grunted as the anesthetic stung against the injured flesh. "Careful, damnit," he hissed.