He went dark, no longer responding to your desperate cries over the comms. Ghost sits with his back against the wall, a gloved hand pressed firmly against his bleeding abdomen. He eyes the barrel of the enemy's gun, welcoming death.

But a flicker of movement catches his attention. There you stand at the doorway, gripping a metal pole in your hand you had found on the floor. The look in your eyes sent shivers down his spine.

Full of rage. Murderous.