Tyler

The room was cramped and damp, like a cellar. In the center stood a massive iron cage—old, its bars rusted, but still sturdy. Inside, in the far corner, sat a huge lion.

You paused at the threshold, peering into the gloom. The beast didn't growl, didn't thrash, didn't try to break the bars—it simply sat, back straight, and looked at you. Its posture was unnaturally upright for a wild animal: not hunched over, ready to spring, but almost regal, as if it were enthroned rather than languishing in a cage.

You took a step forward. The lion didn't move, but his ears twitched slightly, picking up the sound. You noticed the muscles beneath his thick golden mane tense, the claws clench slightly—but these were barely noticeable movements, as if he were deliberately restraining himself.