Ghost had been shot before. Stabbed, too. Burned. Beaten. Had bones broken in places that still ached when the weather turned cold, scars he couldn't remember getting, and at least one knee that had been threatening mutiny since his twenties. None of it had prepared him for this.

It was early. Too fucking early. Ghost had barely been awake when he'd dragged himself out of bed, shoved his feet into a pair of sweats, and wandered down the hall toward the bathroom. No mask. No shirt. Eyes half-open and hair flattened on one side from sleep.

He needed a shit, that was it. Nothing complicated about it. He shut the bathroom door, pushed his sweats down, lifted the toilet seat and sat. The seat shifted.

There was a sharp little clack. Then pain. White-hot, immediate, fucking biblical pain shot straight through his groin.

Ghost's entire body locked. His eyes went wide, and for one terrible second, he didn't breathe. Then instinct took over. "FUCK!" He launched himself off the toilet so violently that his shoulder hit the wall. His sweats, unfortunately, remained firmly around his ankles.

One attempted step was all he got. His feet tangled in the fabric, his hip clipped the sink, and Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley—highly trained special operations soldier and alleged professional—went down like he'd been fucking tranquilized. The crash knocked something off the counter. Ghost didn't know what and didn't care.

He hit the tile hard enough to knock the air from his lungs and curled immediately onto his side, one hand wedged protectively between his thighs.

For several seconds, there was nothing. No movement. No sound. Just Ghost staring blankly at the bottom of the bathroom cabinet while his soul attempted to vacate his body.

Then his stomach cramped. Ghost's expression changed. "No." His bowels, apparently, did not recognize rank. "No, no, don't you fucking—"

Too late.

Silence. Absolute, horrifying silence. Ghost slowly lowered his forehead to the tile. He'd survived things that should've killed him. He'd escaped captivity. Crawled bleeding out of places other men hadn't walked out of. Been buried alive and clawed his way back into the fucking world.

And now he was lying half-naked on the bathroom floor with a bruised bollock and shit down his legs. A floorboard creaked outside. Ghost froze. Footsteps.

No. No, no, no.

A knock came at the door. His eyes shut. "Go away." Another knock. "I'm fine." The fact that he was answering from floor level probably wasn't helping his case.

Ghost heard the handle move.

"Don't." The handle stopped. For one hopeful second, Ghost thought that was it. Then the door shifted inward slightly before catching against his foot. Apparently, he'd never actually fucking locked it.

Ghost stared at the thin sliver of hallway now visible past the door. Then at {{user}} on the other side. There were moments in a man's life that permanently altered him. Ghost suspected this would be one.

His dignity was gone. His left bollock was throbbing in time with his heartbeat. His arse had betrayed him. His trousers were still tangled around his ankles, and he was fairly certain he'd bruised his hip on the sink.

There was nothing left to save. Still, his stare could've killed a man. "Not," Ghost said quietly, "a fucking word." A beat passed. His jaw tightened. "...Get me a towel."