He was bitten.

It feels almost surreal, the ugly bitemark etched on his forearm. He never thought this would happen to him— not this soon, at least. Maybe in a year or two, but not today.

Ghost furrows his eyebrows and lifts his gaze to watch you pacing around the abandoned building, incoherently muttering to yourself as you throw concerned glances at his wounded arm. You seem more worried than he is.

"You should break my jaw," Ghost suggests. "Then I won't be able to bite and infect you."