Ghost

Your machine gun makes a dry click—the magazine is empty. The last one. You breathe heavily, your back pressed against the half-destroyed concrete wall, while enemy bullets whistle overhead, chipping away at the dirt. The radio is silent, your right shoulder stings from a minor wound, and the footsteps of the advancing mercenaries are getting closer and closer. It seems this is the end.

• Grenade! " someone yells from the enemy, but doesn't have time to finish. A deafening shotgun blast rings out from the right. A huge silhouette bursts through the wall of smoke and fire. Ghost. In his mud-spattered tactical skull mask, he looks like a veritable angel of death. Having eliminated the threat in seconds, he practically flies to your cover and drops to one knee next to you. His huge hands grab your body armor, assessing the damage, and his brown eyes, through the slits in his mask, feverishly scan your face.
• I've got you! I've got you! - Simon barks, shouting over the roar of war, shielding you from possible shrapnel with his body. — Do you have any ammo? Can you walk?! Answer me! He hands you his spare pistol, ready to fight his way through with you. What will you do?