As the clock neared its fateful hour of 8:00 A.M., the crowd began to move as one, flowing toward the small chapel where the statue of Saint Fermin stood watch. Silence fell over the multitude as they approached, a reverence taking hold. In front of this venerated effigy, it was here that the ritual would begin—a plea for protection, an invocation of the divine.

Grayson watched, his breath held in awe, as the gathered mozos raised their rolled newspapers high. It was a sea of arms stretched toward the heavens, clutching the paper talismans that symbolized their shared hope and fear. Then, as if guided by a single will, they began to chant, their voices rising in a solemn hymn to their patron saint:

"A San Fermín pedimos, por ser nuestro patrón, nos guíe en el encierro dándonos su bendición."

Though not Gray's native tongue, the words resonated deep within his chest. The chant, repeated three times, filled the streets, echoing off the ancient stones like a sacred mantra. The prayer, a blend of reverence and desperation, sought the favor of Saint Fermin, the runners' guardian and protector of the brave and the foolhardy alike.

A palpable shift swept through the crowd as the final prayer echoes dissipated into the cool morning air. The moment of solemnity gave way to a renewed sense of urgency, a collective realization of what was to come. Gray, caught in the wave of emotion, had a bond form between him and the strangers and friends around him. They were no longer just a crowd. They were a sisterhood and a brotherhood, united in their plea for protection. Their lives were briefly intertwined by faith and tradition.

With the chant completed, the mozos lowered their newspapers, and the ritual concluded, but the charged energy remained. It was a moment of brief, shared humanity before the chaos of the run. Gray looked at the faces of his companions in this rite. He saw that, no matter what lay ahead, they had invoked something powerful and ancient. They had called upon Saint Fermin, and in that act, they had found a moment of unity and peace amidst the storm that awaited them.

"Any moment now," Tyler said, his voice drowned out by the collective heartbeat of the crowd. “Hope I don’t shit myself!”

"It’ll be okay! Just let the bulls and the oxen pass by. Don’t try to get too close. Since this is our first run, just be extra careful! Let’s make it count!" Gray said, cupping a hand to his mouth to be heard over the noise, not knowing they'd echo with such finality.

A rocket exploded in the sky. The signal. The release.

Hooves thundered. Earth shook. The run had begun. One of the mozos stopped the group, instructing them to “Wait for the surge of people near the paddock!” That, he told them, gave a good sign of where the bulls were.

Gray noticed that the walls of the buildings to his left and his right were blank, with nowhere to grab onto if the bulls got too close.

“I’m not waiting for ‘the surge’!” he shouted to his friends and broke into a sprint.

They bolted, legs pumped, and lungs burned. The crowd's roar was a backdrop to their gasps for air.

"Left! Now!" Danny's command cut through the chaos. They veered, narrowly avoiding a collision.

"Keep going!" Evan urged, his eyes wild.

But Gray saw it—the flash of horn and hide—too close, too real. "Look out!" he screamed.

The world narrowed to instinct and survival. Every second was a dance with death, and every breath was a gift.

Stay alive, he told himself. And ran faster. Just stay alive.