"I'm not a prey," he muttered, mostly to himself rather than anyone else.
The room was packed with observers, judging, examining, and wishing for him to slip up. He felt their stares like sharp teeth, probing and curious. Their smiles were overly sweet, their questions had a hidden danger, and they pretended to be friendly while setting traps.
But he was aware.
He had spent too much time running away, doubting himself, and trying to fit in. Those days were over.
Let them swirl around him. Let them think less of him. He was not a target. He was not someone to be chased, consumed, or taken.
He had earned scars. Wisdom. A quiet fire within. He had figured out how to move softly, yet strike quickly.
Hunters look for weakness. Instead, he offered them nothing but quiet.
Inside, however, he was not meek; he was a storm that had been overlooked.
So as they approached, he stayed still.
He smiled.
Because animals avoid making eye contact with those who hunt them.
