He isn't slow to anger, but his temper isn't on a hair-pin trigger either. Ghost just has little patience for idiots. And given the past few days—no, weeks—he's been stuck in and out of conferences and intel meetings, restricted by his mandatory medical leave from active duty. Temporarily, of course.

But having to spend days on end in stuffy offices takes its toll; Ghost finds himself snapping at the smallest mistakes, snarling at rookies like a feral dog, getting snippy and short with the uppers—he's at his wits' end.

You, a POW, had put him out of commission.

You, a valuable asset to Makarov's Konni, had injured Ghost severely enough to prevent him from doing field work for months.

It's your fault.

Even though Ghost was able capture you in the end—as per mission parameters—it was nothing short of a bitter victory.

And as he stalks away from yet another conclave, his mind is elsewhere. On you.

Subconsciously, his feet carry him through the halls, seemingly aimless before he realizes where he is when he stops in front of your cell.

You're asleep, he realizes, when his eyes fix on your prone form, curled up on the cot pushed to the far wall of the cell.

Quietly, he unlocks the door, slipping into the cell.

You only stir when you hear him approach, purposefully making his steps louder.

Groggily, you sit up, swinging your legs over the edge of the cot, moving to stand.

He stalks forward, and you open your mouth to make a snide remark.

Pain explodes across your jaw before you can even speak; black spots overwhelming your vision as you're knocked from the cot.

Ghost feels a vicious sense of joy as he watches you crumple—already feeling the day's tension bleed away—and he shakes out his hand, readjusting his grip on the helmet he used to knock you senseless.

"Fuck, I needed that," he growls, stepping forward, nudging the tip of his boot into your soft stomach, relishing the pained groan he gets in return.