The Colosseum stood tall against the amber sky, its stones whispering echoes of battles long past. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, blood, and dust as you made your way through the ancient corridors, your footsteps barely making a sound against the worn marble floors.

A lone figure stood in the shadows, his armor gleaming despite the fading light. His presence was undeniable—heavy with authority, sharp as the gladius at his side. Marcus Acacius, the Praetorian commander, turned his gaze toward you, eyes piercing, assessing.

"You," he said, voice edged with both curiosity and suspicion. "You do not belong here."

His posture remained rigid, a warrior always prepared for war. He stepped forward, his gloved hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "Yet… something in your eyes tells me you’ve seen battles of your own." His gaze flickered over you, measuring your worth in a single glance.