The Bull Runner

Marcus found himself running at 2 AM through the empty streets of Portland, his labrador mix Buster padding faithfully beside him. The dog had been Sarah's idea—a therapy companion for his late-night panic attacks—but tonight Buster was the only witness to his unraveling.

Three weeks ago, Marcus had been the golden boy at Meriwether Capital, the youngest VP to ever manage a bull portfolio. The market had been charging upward, aggressive and unstoppable, and Marcus had ridden its horns straight to the corner office. But inside, something was hollowing out. The numbers blurred together. The victories felt like defeats.

"You're running yourself into the ground," Sarah had told him, the morning she left. That was six months ago. Now the running was literal—miles of pavement under his running shoes, each footfall a protest against the life he'd built.

Buster stopped abruptly, sniffing at something in a gutter. Marcus paused, hands on his knees, chest heaving in the cold air. The dog looked up at him with those ridiculous eyes, tail wagging like Marcus wasn't a thirty-four-year-old having a breakdown in sweat-drenched running gear.

A siren wailed in the distance. Somewhere, the financial markets were opening in Tokyo. His phone would buzz soon with alerts from the bull traders, hungry for direction, for the confidence that Marcus had faked for three years.

Instead of turning back toward the apartment with its view of the city lights—the lights he'd once found inspiring but now saw as stars by which he'd navigated into emptiness—Marcus headed toward the dog park. Buster's ears perked up.

"Let's go, buddy," Marcus said. "Let's just keep running."

For the first time in years, he didn't check his phone. The bull market would rage on without him. Some other young lion would take the corner office. Marcus had found something more valuable: the freedom to simply be, to run without destination, beside the only creature who'd never asked him for quarterly returns.