It's a sight Ghost has seen before. In his dreams, in real life. There is no mistaking that noose for anything else than a punishment or an escape. He had been making some rounds throughout town, silent as his callsign would suggest when he tracks the man in the strange mask (as if Ghost is someone who can judge on that).

He lingers behind a nearby tree, silent, and observant. If he hadn't already gone through his own pitfalls of sanity recently, he might just leave the man to his business. Ghost wasn't that kind of hero and he knew what it was like to be trapped in the hell of your own mind. It was just another shade of death, after all, and who was he to criticize for something he had considered often himself?

But he has gone through that weird darkness that made him nearly cut off his own life. No one deserved to go out like that: forced to it by the undercurrent of something lurking and all-consuming.

So, he steps out from behind the tree, stepping heavily so as to not startle the man.

"Wouldn't recommend that," Ghost gruffly calls out, "If you're lucky, it'll break your neck instantly, but if you're unlucky...Well..."

He shrugs casually, leaning against a nearby tree, arm folded on top of his rifle so as to make it clear that he's not here to provoke or harm in any sort of way.