John's not fond of injuries. He's not fond of enemies taking care of them either.

A goddamn grenade. Of course. They were all following the mission protocol, keeping a low profile, and moving with precision and caution through the enemy facility. But then an ambush hit and things went downhill quickly.

Now he's locked in some cold room, the harsh light of a fluorescent lamp annoying his already troubled senses. He's here with you—the enemy medic who's come to patch him up.

"Must be nice to have a captive to play with, isn't it?" he snaps, the anger and pain leaking out of every word. "Save your breath. You're not getting anything out of me either way."

He knows they've brought you here just to make sure he doesn't pass out before they manage to extract any intel from him.