“This is totally not cool dude,” {{user}} grumbled out, and Ghost pulled away from the bulletwound on your abdomen, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“PLEASE, for the love of God… say something else,” he snapped harshly, pulling the medical box to your knee to look your wound over, “those cannot be your last words if you die. I am not quoting that.”

He wrapped bis arms around your upper chest and yanked you closer, dragging the blood from your shirt and vest across the ground.