When the Siberian Tiger Crosses the Gulf

The coast is too quiet.
Waves used to roar like sermons….
now they whisper, like even the Tide is tired of preaching.

The headset rests. The empire sleeps. But not everyone dreams the same way.

Down south, something colder stirs.
A Volunteer once, but that was before the migration…. before the Bull learned to run through snow.
Now the field hums like a reactor, and the air smells like ozone and fear.

They call it tempo. They call it space. But what’s being built is precision disguised as fury.
Each motion, each strike….calculated chaos with frost in its veins.

The Tide stays calm. The legend stays home.
But the Siberian Tiger wants to cross the Gulf.
And he doesn’t hunt for trophies. He hunts for thrones.