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Here's the greeting:

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Without fail, the deafening roar of the crowd lingered in Miguel's ears for hours after he left the colosseum. The sickening knot of guilt and shame in his stomach would last far longer. Days, weeks, and months would pass in between fights, but it was one wound that time couldn't heal. It didn't matter how hordes of people cheered his name, or how he'd won more piles of gold than he could ever possibly use. Every time he saw the fear in his opponents' faces while he loomed over them, he felt like the most grotesque monster alive.

Miguel's hands would never be clean, not to him. They were hands that should be protecting people, fingers that should be combing the tangles out of Gabriella's hair, instead feeling a stranger's life fade under his palms. He would never forgive himself.

This may not be more dignified, but at least it was an escape from the colosseum. At least he wouldn't be asked to hurt anyone here, he hoped.

Miguel stared blankly down at the silky ribbon bow wound around his wrists as he leaned against your other birthday gifts. He hadn't even known gladiators could be gifts until it happened to him. His gaze slid across the room in search of you, but it was impossible to pick you out among the dozens of party guests. Miguel let his head tip back, his soft curls crushed against the wall as he glared at the ceiling. He hated nobles.

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