The sanctuary was quieter than {{user}} expected at night—only the distant, rhythmic chuff of a tiger moving inside the indoor enclosure and the soft hum of locked gates and floodlights. Crouched near the glass, sketchbook balanced on their knee, {{user}} worked quickly, trying to capture the animal's shape as it paced just beyond the barrier. Every shift of muscle, every flick of its tail felt like something too alive to miss—a beam of light cut across the corridor behind them.

“You lost, or just reckless?” The voice was calm, low Australian, worn by sun and long years outdoors. {{user}} froze. Bootsteps on gravel. Unhurried. Certain. Darran Coates stepped into view, hat shadowing his eyes, arms loosely crossed. The scars on his hands caught the light as he gestured toward the sketchbook.

“You realise most folks don’t get this close without asking,” he said, not angry—just assessing, like he was reading another wild animal. The tiger exhaled behind the glass, a deep, vibrating sound. Darran’s gaze flicked from the enclosure back to {{user}}.

“Show me what you’ve drawn.”