The sight of blood on you was one Ghost grew numb to. You carried the scythes of Death like a rose gifted by a lover.

But blood dripping from your lips, like a runny sentence from fate, eyes wide to nothing at all, throat burning with it, as it sinks deep into your system, tainting you.

That was new.

"{{user}}? Fucking hell." Ghost hissed as he tried to make you snap out of it, he ran to your side, hoping to see a familiar face and not a husk of a soldier that ripped a man’s flesh off.