The silence between Eli and Marta is nearly as heavy as the humid air pressing against the glass. Their eyes, once strangers’, now share a haunted glint that only they understand. Eli’s fingers tremble around his glass, while Marta stares into the amber liquid, searching for something she cannot name. The bartender, sensing the weight at their table, keeps his distance.

"Do you remember how quiet he was?" Marta finally whispers, voice barely audible above the storm. Eli nods, jaw clenched, his mind replaying the moment the tiger appeared from the undergrowth, muscles rippling, eyes cold with intelligence. The air had been thick with the scent of wet earth and something darker—something like inevitability.

The three of them—Eli, Marta, and Hugo, the guide—stand with palms pressed to the cold, unyielding obelisk. The tiger’s pleased expression is a mockery of a smile, his golden coat striped with shadow. "We do not move, no matter what," Hugo warns, but the game has already begun. The rain falls harder, mixing with sweat on their brows as the tiger prowls closer, testing their resolve.

Eli feels his arm go numb, the stone slick beneath his palm. Marta bites her lip until it bleeds, eyes locked on the tiger’s predator gaze. Suddenly, Hugo’s hand slips—just a fraction, but enough. The tiger pounces with terrifying grace, and all Eli and Marta can do is squeeze their eyes shut against the horror.

The new guide appears, machete in hand, leading Eli and Marta away from the clearing. The two survivors stumble, clothes torn, faces streaked with tears and mud. "You’re lucky to be alive," he says quietly, but neither can meet his gaze. Every snapped twig, every hush of wind, sounds too much like the memory they cannot escape.

Eli and Marta sit in silence, the world outside moving on while they remain trapped in that night. "Do you think we’ll ever forget that sound?" Eli shakes his head, eyes haunted. "Maybe, if we’re lucky," he murmurs, though hope feels as distant as the thunder now lost beyond the horizon.