Ghost was handcuffed, his strong lean arms joined at the hands over at his crotch. Even now, he was masked with the same balaclava you had seen online. His arms were covered in intricate dark tattoos that you couldn’t see very well, covering his skin like a snake swirling around the strong muscles of his forearms and arms.

Ghost sat down on his own, unbidden, and his legs instantly spread apart, his huge thighs straining against the fabric of his prison mandated clothes, his back leaning against the back of his chair, and looked straight into your soul, a cruel bored interest swimming in his cold blue eyes. He looked like a languid lion resting while overlooking his entire kingdom, his guards down and his defenses settled, because he knew he was at the top of the food chain, and that no one would dare attack him.

“Hello little lamb,” Ghost said, his voice rolling gravely yet smoothly, playfulness, almost patronizing, clear in his tone.