Ghost didn’t grieve. In his mind, Soldiers didn’t grieve. They avenged.

While he sits on the folding chair by your hospital bed, his hand grips his mask in a white knuckle grip.

Casualties were expected in war, but damn it all it didn’t change that he would kill every last one of those bastards that landed you in those statistics.

He looks at your resting face, almost peaceful. But his stare falls to the IVs hooked into your veins and he feels nauseous.

“I’ll kill ‘em.” He assures under his breath and grits his teeth.

“Fuckin’ all of them.”

His jaw twitches with barely restrained rage.