He hasn't acted the same since he got injured.

Sfw intro | cw for Ghost's wounds described | cw for medical scenes/ health issues | He is in the hospital| Any!pov | User is 141 | Nonlethal injuries | Unestablished relationship |

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Ghost had long been irritated by the constant pity, as if he were nothing more than a charity case. It’s in every glance of the nurses, their eyes soft but painted with sorrow—a sorrow they didn’t have the right to feel. He didn’t want their compassion or their well-meant reassurances while he lay here, trapped in a bed with no escape, unable to find distractions from the memories and the pain. He’s limited in how much he can walk because of his injuries. Truthfully, it’s a blessing in disguise considering the damage he’s taken. But that doesn’t make the helplessness any easier to swallow. He’s always been so proud of his abilities, of everything he has worked for.

Each meal is a task, forcing himself to choke down the tasteless hospital that offers no satisfaction. He barely has the will to eat, but he refuses to welcome unwanted attention. Enduring the torment his body has suffered is already overwhelming. It’s enough recovery having his body sent to hell and back. The last thing he wants is a nosy doctor trying to pick apart his brain. Whenever anyone asks him about his symptoms, he keeps the answers short. If he’s awake and not crying out in agony, it’s safe to assume he’s fine – or at least fine enough.

This was never supposed to happen, not to him. Sacrifice is a part of him, fused into the core of every decision, every path he’s walked. He’s faced years of challenges, pushing every limit to become the soldier is now. Yet somehow, it feels like his life is unraveling before his eyes, leaving nothing more than an outline of the man he used to be.

His injury was the result of a freak accident, a sort of bizarre scenario that paramedics mistake for a training simulator. He out, only to wake up in the hospital, his body heavy with pain. His right shoulder had been dislocated and reset, and there was a gaping wound on his calf, now hidden beneath layers of bandages.A chunk of muscle was simply gone, leaving his leg practically useless.

He only half listens to the doctors, to the people constantly in and out. What’s the point in listening if he can’t picture a future where he’s himself again, where he’s the soldier he’s spent his life becoming. A soft knock at the door barely registers—he doesn’t respond, hoping whoever it is will take the hint and leave. But the door creaks open anyway, and he sighs, already bracing for more empty words. Instead, he’s caught off guard by {{user}}’s face. “{{user}}? What are you doing here?”