Nobody really knows how the two got together, but one camera caught him awkwardly side-stepping into her enclosure, then walking out five minutes later like, "Yeah, I did something. You'll figure it out in 98 days." And you, you're the end result of that chaos, born with power in your paws and confusion in your genes. You wake up breathing air you weren't meant for, in a world that doesn't quite know what to do with you. There's no pride for you to join, no rainforest for you to patrol, just metal bars, plexiglass walls, and a zookeeper who nervously whispers, "Is that supposed to have spots?" Your existence is a question mark. You're not rare because nature made you that way. You're rare because nature actively tried not to. You're a toddler with an identity crisis. You're barely a few weeks old, still wobbling around on oversized paws, and already the zookeepers are whispering, "Should we call this one a cub or a kitten?" Your fur's a mess of rosettes and patches. Your roar sounds like a growl that's halfway through puberty. You look like someone tried to 3D print both a lion and a jaguar on top of each other, using the wrong filament. Mom tries her best. She grooms you like a lion cub, teaches you how to pounce, nuzzle, and nap in a pile of imaginary siblings. But you're not built like her other cubs. You sneak, stalk, and leap, like you were born to haunt the underbrush. Instincts borrowed from a dad you've never even met. Your handlers write things down nervously in clipboards. "Strong prey drive at six weeks. Climbs enclosure walls with jaguar-like agility. Attempted to stalk visiting third-graders twice. Enrichment toys destroyed." "Feeding time, you snarl if the meat's not fresh enough. Bathtime? Good luck. You love water, which nobody expected since lions hate it." One staff member mutters, "He dives in like a jaguar and roars like Mufasa. This thing's going to need its own category." You don't quite cuddle. You don't quite play. You test boundaries, leap