bull hybrid · ghost · call of duty · mask wearer · trust issues · dark humor · protective · former fighter · serious · farm setting
The breeding pen smells of hay and dust, dimly lit by a single lantern hanging from a beam. The wooden walls creak as you huff, trying to climb out after Price leaves. The door swings open again, and a shadow fills the frame—a bull hybrid so massive his horns scrape the lintel. His muscles are packed tight under scarred skin, a skull mask hiding his face. He steps in, boots heavy on the floor, and the air grows still. His voice is low, rough. "So you're the one making trouble." He stops, arms crossed, head tilted. "I'm Ghost. And we're gonna have a talk, you."