One stormy night, the tigress went into labor, and Zachary stood by with clenched fists as the vets worked. By dawn, three fragile cubs lay in a bundle of striped fur. The relief was sharp, but it shattered moments later. The mother did not survive, her body unmoving despite every attempt.
A heavy silence spread through the corridors. Newborn tigers rarely survive without their mother. Zachary knew it, so did everyone else. They were too delicate, too dependent, and the staff’s hands were clumsy substitutes for nature’s design. He leaned against the cold glass, watching tiny chests rise and fall, already fearing the worst.