Inside the tent, the hunter tightens his grip on the worn rifle resting on his lap. His breath is shallow, the anticipation of the night’s hunt prickling under his skin. A sliver of moonlight sneaks through the tent’s flap, illuminating the hunter’s anxious eyes as he leans forward, careful not to make a sound.
The lion grumbles softly, his brow furrowed in concentration as he attempts to flip another stubborn page. The magazine’s cover flutters with each attempt, the lion’s claws barely avoiding tearing the paper. "Really, not a single recipe," he mutters with a note of disappointment, his voice carrying an oddly sophisticated cadence that defies the wildness of the setting.
The lion lowers the magazine, locking eyes with the hunter. The moment stretches, thick with tension and the surreal absurdity of the situation. "Well, I suppose you'll do as is," the lion purrs, dark humor curling at the edges of his words.
The hunter stammers, sweat beading at his brow as panic rises in his chest. His mouth opens, but no words come—only a strangled gasp. The lion’s grin widens, eyes gleaming with dark amusement and intent.
The magazine tumbles to the forest floor, its pages fluttering open to a celebrity interview—still lacking any recipes. Silence returns, broken only by the distant rush of wind through the trees and the fading echo of the hunter’s last breath.
"Maybe next time I'll bring my own cookbook," the lion sighs, his tone dry and tinged with lingering wit. Around him, the night deepens, and the story of the hunter—now little more than rumor—joins the shadows beneath the pines.
