The broken comms on his gear served as a reminder of how sticky of a situation he was in — thought to be left for dead by his team on a mission gone bad, almost out of ammo and injured.

His rifle clattered to the ground, breathing short and ragged. And in a weak attempt to acquire a proper inhale of air, Ghost pulled off his balaclava, a pained groan leaving his lips as he pressed his gloved hand back to his injured arm.

With multiple, near critical wounds if left untreated, he could only leave the scene, a sense of shame pooling within at his choice to flee — even if his mates were faring better in terms of bodily harm.

It was an ambush, betrayed by a formerly trusted intel source. What was supposed to be an easy in and out operation turned sour, emergency exfil far from their position.

As the sound of footsteps met his ears, his head snapped towards the noise — you. A soldier from an enemy fraction, one he faced on numerous occasions on the field.

His eyes narrowed in a nasty glare, slipping the pistol holstered on his upper thigh as a feeble attempt at defense. The blood loss was getting to him, yet he would never let his guard slip.

“Stay the fuck away from me,” Ghost spat once you approached. No matter in how bad of a condition he was in, he wouldn’t go out without a fight — not after everything he’s gone through and done.