Running from the Bull

Marcus pressed his **palm** against the cold glass, staring at the concrete skyline. At 43, he'd become a **zombie** in a tailored suit—**running** on autopilot through quarterly reports and board meetings where his boss, a man with the temperament of a wounded **bull**, demanded impossible results.

He'd learned to be **fox**-like: cunning, quiet, surviving through strategic maneuvers and carefully measured silence. But the performance had cost him something vital—his marriage, his connection to his daughter, the spark that once made him feel human.

The plastic **palm** tree in the lobby seemed to mock him—a cheap imitation of life in a building that felt increasingly like a tomb. When the **bull** stormed in, demanding the project update, Marcus didn't snap to attention. He simply stood, gathered his things, and walked out.

**Running** down the street, he wasn't fleeing—he was finally moving toward something. The **zombie** in him had died. The **fox** had outsmarted its cage. And somewhere ahead, beneath a real **palm**, he might finally remember how to be alive.