The gate slams open and the world punches forward. The bull erupts under me — a muscle tsunami, snapping, twisting, throwing heat and rage into the dust-choked air. I clamp down with my legs, hand wound tight in the rope, every bone bracing for the storm.

The first buck rips my spine like a whip. The second shatters the sky into a white explosion. The third… I stop counting.

There’s no thinking now. No past, no future. Just the next buck. The next surge. The next lurch of the ground trying to tear me off and crush me.

My free hand cuts the air like a broken flag. My hat’s long gone. My teeth clench so hard I taste blood. The bull screams under me — a sound older than time — and I scream right back inside my head.

The rope slices into my glove. The world tilts sideways, spins, bucks, slams — eight seconds stretch into forever.

The dust blinds. The roar deafens. The body forgets the body.

It’s just me and him and the savage, ripping heartbeat we’re riding together straight into hell.

And I ain’t letting go.