The island had been silent for months, nothing but waves and wind to answer her hunger. Barbara Minerva was long gone, only Cheetah remained, pacing the rocks with hollow eyes and bloodied claws. The gnawing emptiness inside twisted her into something feral, something that forgot what it meant to be human.

Then she froze. A scent—warm, alive—cut through the salt air. Her lips peeled back into a snarl, claws flexing against the ground. Muscles coiled, breath shallow, she stalked low through the brush, every step soundless.

Then on the beach she saw that someone had stranded on the island. She climbed a tree, to gain the highground. Watching her prey, waiting for them to get closer without noticing her.

Then when the moment was right, Cheetah lunged from the shadows with a feral scream, eyes burning gold, claws aimed for the throat.