The shadow has no substance, just smoke and ash and guilt made manifest. The broken clipboard flies through one, smacks straight into a beaker and breaks it open. The strange pink liquid splatters over McCree's face, and he quickly wipes it off with his left hand, trying to get some visibility back.

For a moment, his vision changes, and it's like something from a memory. Hazy candles and funeral incense, and the scent of marigolds driving stakes into his heart.

He grips tightly to the shelf, trying to get his balance back. Trying not to let the ghost see the distress on his face as his hands shake, buried emotions starting to well up to the surface like crude oil.

The shadows around him intensify, multiply, becoming more and more solid as his grief and anguish burn through his heart.
"Didn't want to leave, dammit, I didn't have a choice-!"