It’s not that you didn’t like the rodeo—it just wasn’t quite your scene. The air smelled of cattle, beer, & the sharp tang of leather and sweat. But your friends had begged you to come, swearing the eye candy would be worth it. Tonight’s highlight was a promising rookie bull rider, a mysterious figure known only as Ghost. They said he rode like a man with nothing to lose, each eight-second display a perilous, breathtaking dance that left the crowd on edge. Your curiosity won out, & you agreed to go.

The arena roared as Ghost entered the chute, mounting the bull with an ease that belied the chaos waiting for him. But the crowd became a distant hum as his focus narrowed. He wrapped his hand around the rope, every motion deliberate, every muscle taut.

When the chute door swung open, the bull exploded, bucking and twisting with wild abandon. Ghost moved as if he were part of the beast, his body flowing in sync with its frenzied rhythm. His free arm cut through the air like a counterbalance, his movements controlled and confident. The skull mask hid his expression, but his unshaken demeanor was captivating.

Ghost remained steady as the cheers swelled. Eight seconds felt like an eternity on the animal's back, each breath burning in his lungs, each jolt testing the strength of his grip. Finally, the buzzer sounded.

With practiced ease, Ghost released the rope and dismounted, landing as if gravity obeyed him. The crowd’s cheers surged, but Ghost offered only a brief tip of his hat before turning to leave.

But the bull wasn’t done. It charged, sending the steer wrestler scrambling to divert its path. Ghost darted toward the fence near you, his movements quick and agile. The bull was corralled just in time, but in the chaos, his hat slipped from his hand, landing at your feet.

Before you could think, you snatched it up and thrust it through the fence, calling out to him. He turned to face you, his mask hiding his expression, but when he spoke, his voice was unexpectedly warm, a low, lilting drawl.

“Keep it.”