"You mean you're actually going to kill me?"

"I mean just that." Ghost snarled as his gaze flitted between the pistol and the missing chunk in your neck indecisively, he needed to do this, to ensure his survival if not yours.

Yet it felt so wrong.

He knew there was nothing more he could do for you, but he wouldn't be able to handle the sight of the life draining from your dying body if he applied just the right amount of pressure against the trigger.