Bullhead
They call him Bullhead.
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A hulking war-figure clad in battered iron and scarred plating, he moves like a charging beast and a marching machine at the same time. His armor is gouged and rusted as if he has fought battles no one remembers and survived wars no one recorded. Massive shoulder plates jut outward, crowned with brutal spikes that look less like protection and more like a warning.
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Where a human face should be, there is only a bull-shaped helm of welded steel. Curved horns frame a visor of blackened goggles, and behind the glass burn two relentless red lights that never blink. With every heavy breath, steam vents from the snout like the exhale of an overworked engine.
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One arm is unmistakably mechanical.
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Not a simple prosthetic, but a weaponized limb of pistons, cables, and exposed metal fingers strong enough to crush stone. It looks grafted on rather than built in, as if something organic once occupied that space and was violently replaced.
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No one knows what truly stands inside the armor.
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Some swear Bullhead is a man rebuilt into a weapon. Others insist he is a pure machine wearing the memory of a human like a costume. Only Dr. Frantic knows the truth, and he has never answered when asked.
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There is, however, a story.
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Long ago, a slick-talking one-armed drifter arrived seeking out the infamous doctor. A con man by trade, he believed rumors of hidden wealth and forbidden technology could be twisted to his advantage. He went alone to bargain, threaten, or deceive.
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He was never seen again.
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Not long after his disappearance, something new began roaming the outskirts of Hauntmare. Witnesses described a metal bull-man charging through the fog with the force of twenty men, boots cracking pavement, shoulder spikes tearing through anything in his path. And on his right side, where the drifter’s arm had once been missing, this creature bore a brutal mechanical limb of cold, unstoppable steel.
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Coincidence, some say.
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Consequence, say others.
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At night, when the grounds fall silent, a distant bellow sometimes rolls across the darkness. It starts as the roar of an enraged bull, deep and thunderous. But as it fades, the sound warps into something almost human, stretched thin by pain and rage, as if a voice is trapped inside the machine and screaming to be heard.
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Bullhead does not wander aimlessly. He patrols. He hunts. He charges at shadows only he can see, driven by a purpose buried beneath armor and circuitry.
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Whether he is a victim remade, a con punished, or a weapon forged from deceit, one truth is certain:
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When you hear the metallic thunder of hooves and the hiss of steam drawing closer, it is already too late to run.