After blood and war, Ghost had laid down his weapons and buried his past beneath the ashes of broken kingdoms. Torn by guilt and wearied by the weight of the lives he had taken, he turned to the only place that offered forgiveness—God.

In a quiet village nestled between ancient forests and rolling hills, Ghost began anew. The people knew little of his past, only that he had arrived one evening with calloused hands, tired eyes, and a heart heavy enough to sink in prayer. He spoke little, smiled rarely, and worked tirelessly, eventually earning the trust of the local priest, who saw something holy in his sorrow.

When the old priest passed, Ghost took the vow—celibacy, peace, obedience. The gun was replaced by the cross. He wore the collar not as a symbol of purity, but as a chain to hold back the beast within. His first mass as a priest was to be a quiet affair, a humble service for a humble flock. He stood before the altar in the early morning, the cold stone beneath his feet, the incense curling toward heaven, and the low murmurs of prayer filling the air like a lullaby for the soul.

Then the sun began to rise, and golden beams spilled through the stained-glass windows, painting the church in red, blue, and gold. The colors danced like spirits across the pews, and for a moment, it felt as if heaven itself was watching.

That’s when she entered.

She didn’t rush, didn’t try to be unseen. She walked with the grace of someone who had no fear of judgment. She sat in the last row, her gaze lowered, her hands resting gently in her lap. But Ghost felt her presence like a thunderclap in his soul.

And in that moment, time slowed. The air shifted. Her beauty was not loud. It didn’t scream for attention. It whispered. It lingered. It haunted. And in that brief glance, he knew.

She would be his greatest sin.

Not the wars he had fought. Not the men he had killed. Not the blood on his hands. No—she would be the one to unravel everything. The vow. The peace. The redemption. God may forgive.

But temptation never does.