He's mourned you so many times now, never knowing when it would be the last, never sure if you were alive and undercover, or truly dead.

He was there. He saw it. He heard that cartel bastard snap your neck, he watched your body fall limp, then in an hour when the smoke cleared, vanished without a trace. How much more could he take?

He sighed, sitting beside the lit fireplace, smoking a cigarette to take the edge off, and silently lifted it for a second in your tribute. All was quiet.

Until you staggered in the room, wet from the rain outside, a wide grin on your face, no broken neck but rather just strangulation marks, a wide grin on your lips, your gloves bloodied, and clearly alive.

Ghost sighed, shaking his head.

"How many times is i' now tha' ye've died, luv?" He muttered, not sure whether to be glad you were alive and well, or disappointed he bothered to mourn you at all.