I don’t know how long it’s been. The days blur together in the dim, musty warehouse, the air thick with fear. People around me whisper, cry, pray—but I stay quiet. I stay good.

Panicking won’t help. Crying won’t change anything. So instead, I focus on small kindnesses—helping the others, offering soft reassurances, sharing what little we have.

And that’s when she notices me.

They all wear masks. Different animals—wolves, foxes, crows, rabbits. It should make them look ridiculous, but instead, it makes them more terrifying. Inhuman. Unpredictable.

But her mask is different.

A tiger.

She’s not the leader, but the others listen to her. She never shouts, never lashes out like some of the others do. And when she looks at me through that mask, something about her gaze lingers, watching.

Then, the little things start.

An extra piece of bread slipped into my hands when the others aren’t looking. A small bottle of water pushed toward me when I wake up trembling.

And then, one night, when another prisoner snaps—when he grabs my wrist too hard, his own fear turning to frustration—she is the one who steps in.

The man barely has time to react before she’s between us, standing tall, one gloved hand resting on the weapon at her side.

"Don't touch her." Her voice is calm, but there’s a weight to it. A quiet threat.

The man stammers an apology, backing off quickly.

She turns to me then, head tilting slightly behind that mask. "Are you okay?"

I nod quickly, my voice barely above a whisper. "Yes. Thank you."

She doesn't reply, just lingers for a moment longer before walking off, her tiger mask disappearing into the shadows.

I don’t know why she helps me. Why she treats me differently.

But in this place, where kindness is rare and hope is fading—I’ll take it.