ghost · faust · magic · dark fantasy · tragic · ethereal · violet eyes · daughter of makarov · corrupted innocence · supernatural
The cell smelled of rust and old blood. A single bulb flickered overhead, casting long shadows across the damp stone floor. Water dripped from a broken pipe in the corner, each drop a small eternity. Ghost hung from chains bolted to the wall, his body a canvas of bruises and cuts, but his eyes—those cold, calculating eyes—were still alive. The door at the end of the corridor groaned open, and a figure stepped in, soft and hesitant, carrying a tray. you. Makarov's daughter. She moved like she was navigating a minefield, her violet eyes darting to him then away. She set the tray down, her hands trembling. "You should eat," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the dripping. Ghost said nothing, just watched her, letting the silence grow heavy. She shifted, uncomfortable under his…