The chaos began, in the words of one attendee, with a sound that did not belong at a dance festival — sharp, sudden and relentless. "I remember just running for my life," the survivor told ABC News, describing a scene of stampede and smoke as thousands fled stages, food vendors and fenced enclosures at the Video Nova festival on Sunday night. That testimony has become emblematic of a weekend that has left artists, fans and local officials scrambling to account for what went wrong.

Authorities have said the incident is under active investigation; in a brief statement, local law enforcement confirmed multiple casualties and that a "scene investigation" would continue while hospitals treated the injured. Festival organizers canceled remaining events and pledged cooperation with investigators, saying they were "devastated" by what unfolded and committed to assisting families and attendees. Neither organizers nor officials have released a final casualty tally as of Monday morning.

Beyond the immediate horror, the attack poses serious questions for an industry that has built a multibillion-dollar business on mass participation. Festivals like Video Nova, which in recent years marketed themselves as immersive communal experiences blending music, art and lifestyle branding, rely on open space, cheap tickets and high-volume vendor partnerships. Security protocols — a mix of private contractors, perimetric fencing, credentialing and local police presence — were never designed for the kind of violence that struck this weekend, industry insiders say.

"This will change everything," said a festival producer who declined to be named, citing ongoing investigations. Promoters and insurers are already bracing for higher premiums, tighter vetting of attendees and renewed pressure to invest in more robust screening and on-site medical and mental-health services. Artists and agents, mindful of fan safety and reputation risk, may increasingly ask for contractual guarantees that were once considered burdensome.

Culturally, the attack reverberates beyond industry spreadsheets. Music festivals have long functioned as rites of passage for young adults and as crucibles for cultural exchange; their abrupt vulnerability reshapes how communities imagine public joy. Survivors describe a dual trauma: the immediate fear during the event and the subsequent loss of collective innocence that accompanies such mass-casualty episodes. Mental-health advocates pressed organizers to fund long-term counseling, while civil-rights groups warned against securitization strategies that could disproportionately affect marginalized attendees.

Politically, the massacre will likely feed into broader national debates over public safety, emergency preparedness and gun policy. Lawmakers may call for hearings, and municipalities that host large events could pursue new ordinances governing staffing, training and reporting. For festival towns that rely on cultural tourism, the economic fallout could be severe and immediate: vendors, local hotels and ancillary businesses face lost revenue as bookings are canceled and future events are reconsidered.

For now, survivors and families wait for answers. The survivor who fled through the crowd said she keeps returning to an image of friends who did not make it out, and to the question of how to reconcile the memory of communal exuberance with the rupture of violence. "We went there to dance and be together," she said. "Now everyone is trying to figure out how we keep that alive without putting people in danger." The industry and the public will be watching whether that reconciliation comes through concrete safety reforms, renewed community supports, or a retrenchment that dims one of modern music culture's defining rituals.