Obsidian
He was carved out of the dark side of the arena — a body that swallows light, horns lined in cold silver, eyes holding one thin green ember. He never raises his voice. He does not have to.
He was carved out of the dark side of the arena — a body that swallows light, horns lined in cold silver, eyes holding one thin green ember. He never raises his voice. He does not have to.
When the stands empty and the floodlights drop to a low crimson hum, one lane stays open. That lane belongs to the bull. He walks it, then he runs it, and the asphalt remembers him.
Somewhere behind him a blue trail thins out into the horizon — proof of speed, never the point of it. The bull is the mass that keeps the trail honest. Steel horns, midnight road, no brake pedal.
Six frames pulled from the night lane. No captions needed — the bull was there.





