Mist clung low to the ground, wrapping the tall trees in a pale gray veil. The only sounds were distant birds and the soft crunch of boots against damp leaves as a small logging crew prepared to start another long day. For most of them, it was routine—mark the trees, move the equipment, clear the fallen timber left behind after the last storm.
No one expected what they were about to find.
At the edge of a narrow ravine, half-hidden by ferns and broken branches, lay a massive log. It was old, thick, and soaked from recent rain, wedged awkwardly between two rocks. At first glance, it looked like nothing more than another obstacle in the way.
Then the log moved.
One of the workers froze. “Did you see that?” he asked, his voice low.
Another stepped closer, peering through the brush. That was when they heard it—a deep, strained sound, not quite a growl, not quite a breath. A sound that carried pain.
A full-grown tiger—its orange-and-black coat dulled with mud, its powerful body pinned awkwardly to the ground. One massive front leg was trapped beneath the weight of the log, twisted at an unnatural angle. The animal’s chest rose and fell rapidly, each breath a visible effort.
For a moment, no one spoke.
A tiger this close was dangerous. Even injured, even exhausted, it could kill a man in seconds. Every instinct screamed the same thing: back away.
“We need to leave,” one worker said, already stepping back. “This is not our problem.”
Another nodded. “Call it in and go. We can’t help.”
The trapped tiger lifted its head slightly. Its eyes—golden, fierce even through pain—locked onto the men. There was fear there. And something else.
He had grown up near these forests. As a child, he’d been taught to respect them, to understand that humans were visitors here—not owners. He had seen tigers only from a distance, fleeting shadows between trees. He knew the danger.
But as he watched the animal struggle, saw its claws dig uselessly into the mud, saw how weak its movements had become, something in him refused to turn away.
“If we leave it like this,” Arjun said quietly, “it will die.”
The others stared at him. “Are you crazy?” one snapped. “That thing could rip you apart.”
“Yes,” Arjun replied. “It could.”
The tiger let out another low sound, a mixture of pain and exhaustion. Its head dropped back to the ground.
Arjun took a slow breath.
“I’m not saying we rush in,” he said. “But we can’t just walk away.”
Silence hung heavy in the damp air.
Finally, the crew leader spoke. “We call wildlife rescue. Now. And until they arrive, we keep our distance.”
The call was made. The response came quickly—but not quickly enough. The rescue team was at least an hour away, navigating rough terrain.
An hour was a long time for an injured animal pinned under a soaked, crushing log.
The rain began again, light at first, then heavier.
The tiger shuddered.
Arjun watched the water pool around the animal’s side, soaking into its fur. He noticed how the tiger’s breathing had become shallow, how its strength seemed to be fading with every passing minute.
The tiger stirred again, lifting its head just slightly. Its eyes met Arjun’s—not with aggression, but with something raw and unmistakable.Arjun removed his helmet and set it down. His hands trembled, but his voice was steady.
Reluctantly, two others agreed to help—staying at a distance, ready to pull him back if the tiger lunged. Using metal bars and thick ropes, they worked carefully, inch by inch, trying to shift the log without making sudden movements.
The tiger growled weakly, its body tensing, but it didn’t strike. It didn’t have the strength.
Sweat mixed with rain on Arjun’s face as he pushed with everything he had. Muscles burned. His boots slipped in the mud
