Grass ripples, but the source of the movement is unseen; fern fronds shiver, but all is silent in the forest. There is no breeze. Enveloped in shadow, the hunter is waiting to pounce.
Paws brush the ground, slow and confident, while tailtip swishes patiently to an internal rhythm—a pounding heartbeat. Lithe limbs stretch taut with tension, and mouth set only slightly agape displays pointed, deadly fangs. Eyes are wild with the burning fever of the hunt.
Throughout it all, the prey realizes nothing: the taste of innocence caught unawares is sweet on the hunter's tongue before they even strike.