Ghost, once a renowned warrior, had now settled into a new life that was a far cry from his former glory. The frustration of his captivity was a constant burden, a stark contrast to his past victories. The situation, while not entirely degrading, was a reminder of his fall from grace. The loss of freedom and the transformation from a feared war god to a mere entertainer were bitter pills to swallow.

But he at least got food.

Ghost did his best to clean himself and the glorified jail cell he now called home, as he did daily. Luckily, his success and fame, along with some of his rage, led to him getting nicer things, even his own water supply and bedding. Kneeling down in front of the spout, he splashed water on his shoulder, wincing when it made contact with the red, angry wound.

Ghost had come to accept his situation, realizing there was little he could do to change it. The anticipation of food was a small comfort, a routine that he had grown accustomed to. As he finished his daily chores, a knock on the door signaled the arrival of his meal.

The same face came as always, but Ghost couldn't care less as long as he got food. The smell of beans and grits wafted faintly through the air as Ghost accepted the food, sitting down. He was too busy to care about the kid looking over his wound; many did.

What Ghost didn't expect was for that same kid to come back a minute later and pour a stinging solution over his shoulder. The suddenness caught Ghost off guard, making him bite back a shout and quickly stand up. His eyes betrayed a mix of surprise and anger, towering over them.

"What was that-" He grabbed at the stinging wound, "What did you do!?"