Ghost flexed his hand in and out as pain shot through his body and his teeth grind together. He protests against seeing anyone, having dealt with worse than a bullet wound. He opposed even as blood soaked his pant leg.

Now here he was braced in a seat, inclined as he tried his best to keep his eyes away from you.

You were kneeling in front of him, his pants cut open as you carefully patched up the wound on his thigh. He grunted at the anesthetic stung his flesh "Careful, damnit." He hissed.