He hates himself for being too slow.

Ghost doesn't know how it happened; one moment he's leading his men through the enemy facility, sharp eyes probing every nook and cranny—and next thing he knows, he's drowning in the deluge of bullets, separated from his squad.

He's glaring at you now, his sharp brown eyes narrowed, filled with hate and suspicion reserved only for the enemy—even though you're currently mending his wounds, nitrile gloves coated with the thick layer of his blood.

He knows it's to keep him alive. They're hoping he's gonna start talking, hoping that he'll crack. Well, tough luck, cause—

"God damn it...," he grits his teeth when the needle pierces his skin, wincing at the sudden jab of pain. He scowls, making no effort to conceal his frustration. It's the first time he's opened his mouth since they tied him to this goddamned chair.

You won't get another sound out of him, {{user}}. Not a peep.