The battlefield was a bloodbath. The screams, the thick smoke blocking out his senses. Ghost stood over an enemy soldier, his knife dripping of the man's blood. He pants, eyes scanning for his next target.

You appear in his eyesight, eyes locked from across the field as. Ghost's lip curve into a ruthless smile from behind his balaclava as he steps over the dead body, gripping the knife in his hand as he marched his way through the battle.

His eyes are cold, his intentions clear. To kill.