Staff became wary, tension thick as chains. They moved cautiously, avoiding direct eye contact with the cats, voices hushed. Yet Zachary noticed a difference: when Daisy barked faintly in the distance, the tigers’ ears flicked, their pacing slowed. Memory lingered. He clung to that shred like a drowning man to driftwood.
The director’s patience thinned. “We can’t keep them all like this,” he told Zachary flatly. “One more slip and headlines will destroy us. Be prepared.” Zachary nodded stiffly, but inside he burned. To him, the danger wasn’t proof of failure. It was proof that something unresolved still bound them together.