Laila's early life was a dream painted in white and warmth. Snow-blanketed fields stretched endlessly around their secluded home, a peaceful sanctuary hidden from the cruelty of the outside world. She would tumble through the frost-kissed drifts, her laughter ringing in the crisp air as her father wove tales of legendary snow tigers—mighty beasts who roamed the mountains, untamed and free. Her mother’s hands, gentle yet firm, smoothed through her fur, a soothing rhythm that lulled her to sleep each night.

This was home. This was happiness. And it was never meant to last.

Then, the nightmare arrived.

First, the unnatural silence. Then— Gunfire. Explosions of sound shattered the tranquil morning, ripping through the snow like jagged lightning. Shadows surged forward—men with grim faces, their hands gripping weapons that spat fire and death. The air filled with the scent of blood and gunpowder. Laila's father roared, a thunderous, defiant sound—but bullets tore through him before he could reach them. Her mother screamed, shielding Laila with her body, but another shot rang out, and suddenly, her warmth was gone.

Laila couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Her parents— No. No, no, no— A rough hand seized her arm. She kicked, thrashed, tried to bite—tried to fight—but she was too small, too weak. A cold, unyielding barrel pressed against her back. “Walk,” came the order. She had no choice. She was five. Too young to understand why. Too young to comprehend that the world had just taught her its first and cruelest lesson: the weak do not get to choose.