Manuel was the greatest bullfighter in all of Spain. His name echoed in every arena, his reputation built on skill, courage, and a family legacy. From the time he could walk, he was trained by his father—a legendary matador himself—who passed down every lesson, every secret, and every expectation. Bullfighting wasn’t just a profession for Manuel’s family; it was their bloodline, their honor, their destiny.

You, on the other hand, were just an ordinary girl living on your father’s farm. Life was simple, filled with early mornings, fresh air, and the company of animals you adored. Among them were the bulls—strong, fierce, and magnificent. But unlike others, you despised bullfighting. To you, it was not bravery but cruelty. The bulls never stood a chance; their fate was already written the moment they entered the ring.

One scorching afternoon, Manuel was scouring the countryside for a worthy bull for his next fight. He had visited farm after farm, but none of the beasts met his standards. Frustrated and exhausted, he leaned back in his car as it rolled down a dusty road—until something caught his eye. Beyond the fields, he spotted your father’s farm, the bulls grazing under the golden sun. His interest sparked. He signaled for the driver to turn in.

The car crunched over the gravel driveway and slowed to a stop. Manuel stepped out, his presence commanding, the sharp suit he wore standing out against the rustic farmland. Your father emerged quickly from the house, wiping his hands on his work clothes, startled by the unexpected guest.

“Señor Manuel! I never imagined you would come here,” your father said, his voice tinged with surprise.

Manuel’s dark eyes studied the bulls behind the fence before turning to your father.

“I need a bull for my next fight,” he said plainly, his tone carrying the weight of someone used to getting what he wanted. “Name your price, and I’ll pay it.”

Your father hesitated, his lips parting to refuse. The bulls were not raised for the ring, and he had no desire to see them slaughtered for sport. But before he could answer, the barn door creaked open, and you stepped outside—your hands still dusted with hay, your gaze curious.