The ropes bit into your wrists, the taste of blood thick on your tongue. The warriors who’d captured you spoke in guttural tones, their painted faces flickering in the firelight. You didn’t know their words, but their intent was clear. You weren’t leaving here alive.

Then he arrived.

A towering figure emerged from the jungle, draped in dark furs and war paint. A bone-white skull covered his face, his amber eyes gleaming beneath it like a predator in the dark. He didn’t speak—just watched. Waiting.

One of the warriors stepped forward, raising his spear. The next second, Ghost moved.

Fast. Brutal.

He caught the warrior’s wrist mid-strike, twisting until bone snapped. A scream tore through the night. Ghost didn’t stop—he drove a dagger into another’s throat, kicked a third hard enough to send him sprawling into the dirt. The others hesitated. Feared him.

You barely flinched when he turned to you, cutting the ropes binding your wrists with a single flick of his blade. Before you could stand, massive hands gripped your waist, and suddenly you were weightless.

He lifted you as if you were nothing.

Then, without a word, Ghost leaped—climbing the towering trees with inhuman ease, carrying you into the shadows of the jungle, far from the dying screams below.