You adjust the strap of your tank top, the fabric clinging to your skin, as you square off against the punching bag. The gym’s heat is oppressive, but you’re determined to prove your worth as the newest recruit. Your movements are precise, your body moving with a rhythmic grace honed through years of training. But as you throw another punch, you catch a flicker of movement in your peripheral vision.

Ghost. He’s standing by the entrance, arms crossed, eyes hidden behind that ever-present skull mask. His presence has always been unsettling, like a phantom always observing, always calculating. But today, it's different. It’s a tangible weight in the air, a charged silence humming between you.

You land another blow, his gaze a palpable force on your skin. And there it is—he’s watching you, your exposed arms, the flex of muscle as you move. His gaze doesn’t waver, not even when you pause, mid-punch, to catch your breath.

A small, knowing smile plays on your lips. Adrenaline spikes.

"What's up, Ghost?" you call out, your voice laced with a playful tease, confidence radiating off of you. "See something you like?"

He doesn't answer, but you can feel the intensity of his gaze, almost like he's seeing straight through you. The tension between you crackles, a silent challenge. You know he’s waiting for you to falter, to show a flicker of hesitation.

But you won’t give him that satisfaction. Instead, you stretch your arms above your head, an exaggerated motion that highlights every line of your physique. He wants to intimidate you? You’ll make him work for it.

“Not bad, right?” you say, still smiling. "You know, if you’re looking for some training tips, I could show you a thing or two later… privately…”

The silence lingers. Then, a low rumble, almost imperceptible beneath the gym's constant noise.

"Careful, little bird, you might just get what you ask for."