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> "If no one wants it, I'll take care of it."
That one sentence was like a rock thrown into a still pond — waves rippled instantly through the crowd.
Everyone had gathered out of curiosity — it wasn't every day you saw a tiger cub in the Continental's lobby. But wanting to see a tiger and wanting to raise one were two completely different things.
Who in their right mind would want a tiger in their home?
The most famous tiger owner in history was heavyweight boxing champion Mike Tyson, and the most common group of tiger owners were oil-rich Middle Eastern princes.
Even in Hollywood — that paradise of people with more money than sense — few dared to keep a full-grown predator as a house pet.
What if one night they got high and decided to pull the tiger's whiskers for fun, only to become the evening snack?
So when someone actually volunteered to adopt it, every head turned to see which lunatic had spoken.
The speaker, of course, was none other than Henry Brown, one of the hotel's service contractors.
> "You sure about that?" asked Moonie Fisher instinctively.
Henry walked forward, smiling.
> "At least I'm not afraid of being bitten," he said lightly.
Then, before anyone could stop him, he reached his hand straight into the cage to pet the cub.
The tiger cub, already weaned, had grown its milk teeth — sharp enough to tear meat.
Since being captured, it hadn't been starved to death, but it had never really eaten its fill either.
So when something alive entered its space, instinct took over — it bit down hard!
Whether Kryptonian flesh tasted good, the cub would never know, because it couldn't pierce the skin. No matter how it gnawed or twisted, it was like biting a steel bar.
Henry didn't mind in the least. He simply played with the cub — scratching its head, getting bitten; tickling its chin, getting bitten again; tugging at its whiskers just to fulfill a childhood dream… and, of course, getting bitten again.
Seeing how relaxed he was, others began to think maybe the cub wasn't that dangerous after all. One daring soul reached in from the opposite side to "pet" it like a kitten.
A split second later — chomp!
The cub spun around and sank its teeth into the intruder's hand.
The man screamed bloody murder.
Henry wanted to laugh, but a thought struck him: if a predator ever tasted human flesh — even once — it could never be allowed to live.
Not because tiger meat was addictive or anything.
But because in the tiger's mind, "human" would be added to its list of edible prey.
Once that happened, hunger wouldn't even be required for it to kill.
It would attack on instinct, for dominance or pleasure — the same way a male tiger kills another's cubs just to mate with the mother.
Humans, long detached from their animal instincts, rarely realized that their actions — even turning their back and running — could provoke a predator.
Running was the tiger's favorite invitation: "I'm scared, don't eat me!"
And what self-respecting tiger could resist that?
So the best solution was to make sure this cub never tasted human blood — ever.
With that in mind, Henry reached both hands into the cage again, pried open the cub's jaws, and freed the unlucky man's mangled hand.
Fortunately, the cub had only just stopped nursing; it wasn't used to tearing flesh yet, especially not wriggling prey.
The victim's hand bore deep teeth marks and some bleeding, but no chunks missing, no muscle torn — lucky.
He clutched his hand, wincing, while the rest of the onlookers laughed at his misery.
Still, everyone took the same lesson away: don't treat the tiger like a cat.
It hurt now — imagine when it was grown.
Then, of course, everyone realized why this man, Henry, dared to adopt the tiger — his "body that guns can't harm" made him the only one qualified.
The cage wasn't even locked — just secured with a simple latch.
Henry opened it without hesitation and scooped up the striped troublemaker.
Judging by the weight, the cub was around thirteen kilograms.
Its fur was healthy, no visible wounds, though it struggled weakly in his arms.
It wasn't violent — just starving.
That explained why it had bitten at anything that moved.
Hunger, not aggression.
But even if its parents showed up now, Henry wouldn't care.
He stroked its head like one would pet a cat, completely unbothered.
After a while, the cub seemed to realize the gap in strength.
It stopped struggling, its four legs drooping limply as it slumped in Henry's arms, panting, occasionally licking its nose.
Henry chuckled, rubbing its head.
> "Hungry, huh, little one? Don't worry — I'll get you something good to eat."
Then he turned toward the hotel manager.
> "Ms. Fisher, may I take him? Or do you have other plans for him?"
What plans could I possibly have? Fisher thought wryly. Throw it in the kitchen and serve roast tiger for dinner?
She didn't want to give away hotel property for free — but she also didn't want to name a price and scare Henry off.
If he backed out, she'd be stuck with the tiger again.
The man never haggled — which was infuriating.
Killing him would be simple, just a word to her staff — but…
Maybe it was sympathy for the cub.
Maybe it was a desire to win Henry's favor.
In the end, Moonie Fisher sighed.
> "Fine. You can have it. But don't expect me to cover its meal expenses."
Henry grinned from ear to ear, rubbing the cub's head.
> "Great! Katie, did you hear that? The lady said yes. You're coming home with me."
Hearing the freshly minted name, Fisher rolled her eyes.
> "Already named it? That was fast. But let me warn you — if you ever get tired of it, you deal with it yourself. Don't dump it back here."
> "No worries, I'm very responsible," Henry said cheerfully.
A tiger was a treasure trove — every part valuable.
Why would he ever give it up?
When it died naturally someday, what he did with the remains was nobody's business.
It wasn't like he'd bought it to kill.
That thought made Henry suddenly pause.
He lifted the cub, flipped it over, and examined its belly.
> "Huh. So my little Katie's actually a boy."
Changing the name? Not happening.
And somewhere in his mind, a darker, greedier thought crossed.
> Excellent… tiger whip tonic, secured.
The cub shuddered violently in his arms, as if it understood its grim fate.
Not even grown up yet, and already this Kryptonian biped is plotting against me… what am I going to do?
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