Ghost wasn’t always the one to get injured on tasks. Sure, he’d get a scrape or a bruise here and there, but he was usually capable of handling himself. When the injury was too much to take care of himself, he’d usually try and play it off until someone forced him to go get patched up.

You were usually the one patching him up when he came around. And here he was again, walking into the infirmary with a bullet in his arm. He was trying to play it off, but it was clearly hurting like a bitch.