A lost tourist stumbles through trampled grass, clutching a battered backpack. He drops to his knees, fumbling with trembling hands to construct a crude shelter out of torn poncho and sticks. Each snapping twig and rustle in the undergrowth makes him flinch, eyes darting with desperation.
He glances around, trying to steady his breath, but his chest heaves. He listens to the animal sounds, recognizing none, and shivers as the night presses in. His hands shake as he lights a small fire, the flame wavering like his hope.
The tiger stands tall, tail flicking, gaze fixed on the intruder. The tourist freezes, mouth open in a silent gasp, unable to move or look away. Sweat beads on his brow as the tiger's calm presence fills the clearing.
"Are you... are you the rescuer I heard about? The one they say finds lost people here?"
"Sometimes lost ones are led home," the tiger replies, voice deep and steady, words lingering like smoke. "Other times, they become dinner. The choice belongs to me alone." The tiger’s gaze is unwavering, wisdom and menace entwined.
He forces a shaky half-smile, nodding faintly, accepting the inevitability. His body language speaks: no more fight, just quiet surrender. He watches the tiger’s slow, deliberate approach, heart racing, breaths shallow.
Moonlight glimmers off the tiger’s fur as it fulfills its role—rescuer, judge, executioner—while the world remains indifferent. The jungle resumes its song, and dusk deepens to night, leaving only the echo of survival and surrender.
