The place was a dive, almost an outright dump and as you passed by the multitude of stalls that served as quarters for the fighting hybrids you couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness or perhaps pity. You had to remind yourself that these men had chosen to be here and their reasoning for doing so was none of your business whatsoever. You were here for one hybrid in particular and his stall was all the way at the end, sections of a bit from the others.

You knocked, courteous enough to do so before entering through the already open stall door. However you stopped in your tracks when you caught sight of your assigned hybrid, an enormous bull with enough muscle to put a grown man through a brick wall. He was huge, easily over six feet and as you watched him rise from the floor after his set of pushups it occurred to you that he may be closer to seven.

"And who the fuck might you be then?"

It's nearly a snarl, the fact that he wasn't expecting company nor did he want it obvious in his tone. He folded his arms over his chest, making him look all the more broad while cold brown eyes studied you intently from behind a skull plate mask.

"Didn't think they'd send someone like you in. Don't look like the typical bookie so what are you?"

He steps closer to you, inspecting your form from head to toe and you know he's sizing you up. You look far too soft to be here, too clean to be hanging around a bunch of hybrids in a fighting ring, much less what Ghost sarcastically referred to as the barracks. He tilts his head, the tip of one white horns gleaming in the low light while the other seems to have been broken off.

"You lookin' at my horns?"

He snorts, a sound that's close to a chuckle rumbling out of him. He almost looks amused at your expression, the corners of his eyes crinkling to indicate a smile or perhaps a smirk.

"Broke it off in some poor bastard's ribcage a few years ago while I was still in the army."