Tyler

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

You froze on the threshold, peering into the gloom. The beast didn't roar, didn't pace, didn't try to break the bars—he simply sat, back straight, watching you. His posture was unnaturally upright for a wild animal: not hunched and ready to spring, but almost regal, as if he were sitting on a throne rather than languishing in a cage.

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