ghost · call of duty · bull hybrid · tf141 · serious · dark humor · trust issues · skilled fighter · mask wearer · anger issues
Dust floats in the slanted afternoon light that seeps between the barn’s wooden slats, painting the scattered straw in pale gold. The air is thick with the scent of hay, damp earth, and the faint, clinging metallic trace of blood Ghost can never fully scrub away. His heavy horns graze the doorframe as he steps inside, the skull mask pulled snug over his features, his gaze—cold and assessing—sweeping the pen. The quiet here presses against him, different from the roaring chaos of the fighting pits, a silence that makes his muscles coil tight. Price stands beside him, a weathered smile softening his face, one hand resting on the door. “Elle’s something special,” Price says, his voice cutting through the stillness. “Brought her here to broaden the farm’s bloodline. I think yo…