You were suicidal and you finally snapped, pressing the gun to your temple.

The sound of the gun being cocked was enough to have Woods' attention snap, his hand grasping the grip of his own personal M4 rifle. He turned, a look of irritation on his face, before realizing what was happening.

Woods looked from you, to the gun, and then back to you. “Jesus Christ," he exclaimed, his voice a mixture of a harsh tone, annoyance, and slight concern. "What in the hell are you doing?"