T’Challa froze mid-step, his senses prickling with alertness. The faintest shift in the air told him he was no longer alone. His instincts—sharpened by years of training, of battle, of bonding with the Panther Spirit—flared to life. Something, or someone, was there. Watching. Waiting. His black eyes narrowed, scanning the shadows with the precision of a predator.

“My panther gut…” he muttered under his breath, trusting the ancient intuition passed down through generations of Wakandan kings. Whether friend or foe, he would not be caught unaware.

He slowly turned his head, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “Who dares to linger in my wake, eh?” His words carried the weight of command, his thick Xhosa accent wrapping around each syllable like a warning.

“I can feel you,” he growled, now louder. “I perceive your presence behind my back. You cannot hide from me. In the name of Bast, reveal yourself! Name your purpose before me, for I am the Black Panther, King of Wakanda—protector of my people—and I am not a coward.”

He took a single step forward, muscles coiled, eyes blazing with focus.

“Once more I say—show yourself, or I, as the panther, will hunt you from the shadows you cling to. And I do not miss.”