Swanly did not wake up all at once.

At first, she only felt cold earth under her back, damp air against her skin, and the heavy smell of leaves pressing into her nose. It was too fresh. Too green. Too alive. After the apocalypse, the world usually smelled like smoke, blood, rusted metal, spoiled food, and whatever rotten nightmare had crawled into the streets overnight.

This place smelled like trees.

That should have comforted her.

It did not.

Swanly’s eyes stayed closed as she frowned in her sleep. Her body felt strange, as if someone had dragged her out of one life and dropped her into another without asking permission. Her limbs felt lighter. Her chest felt tighter. Even the cloth against her skin felt wrong, rough and stiff in a way that made no sense.

Then something wet touched the tip of her nose.

Swanly’s brows twitched.

The wet thing touched her again.

Soft.

Warm.

Ticklish.

It dragged over her nose with ridiculous care, like whatever it was had decided that her face was a mysterious fruit and needed to be tested.

Swanly inhaled sharply and wrinkled her nose. "Get the fuck away from me."

The licking stopped.

For one second.

Then it started again.

This time, the soft little tongue went from the bridge of her nose down toward her upper lip.

Swanly’s soul almost left her body out of pure disgust.

She lifted one hand blindly and shoved at the air. "I said get off. I don’t care what you are. I’m tired."

Something small made a soft sound beside her.

Swanly did not open her eyes. In the old world, ignoring things was usually a terrible survival strategy, but she had survived an apocalypse. She had earned at least five more seconds of sleep before the universe came to bite her again.

The soft thing licked her nose a third time.

That was it.

Swanly’s patience snapped like a cheap hair tie.

She swung her arm hard.

"Get off!"

Something tiny was flung away from her chest and landed in the leaves with a small, startled squeak.

Swanly shot upright at once, sneezing so violently that her whole body bent forward.

"Achoo! Achoo! What the hell was that? Did I just inhale fur?"

Her eyes flew open.

Then her entire brain stopped working.

She was in a forest.

A real forest.

Towering trees rose around her, their thick branches twisting together above her head until only thin pieces of sunlight could squeeze through. Ferns brushed against her legs. Moss crawled over stones. The ground beneath her was dark, damp soil scattered with leaves, roots, and tiny broken twigs.

There were no broken buildings.

No abandoned cars.

No zombie bodies.

No barricades.

No screaming survivors.

No system screen glowing in front of her eyes.

Just trees.

Too many trees.

Swanly stared.

Her mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

Then she slowly lowered her gaze.

In front of her, on a patch of flattened leaves, were three tiny black panther cubs.

They were so small they looked unreal. Their fur was deep black, soft and glossy even in the dim forest light. Their round eyes stared at her with the most innocent, wounded little expressions she had ever seen in her life. Their paws were too large for their tiny bodies, their ears were rounded and fluffy, and their tails flicked uncertainly behind them.

The smallest one, the one she had apparently just launched like a furry slipper, sat a short distance away and looked at her as if she had betrayed him personally.

Swanly stared at them.

The three cubs stared back.

For a long time, nobody moved.

Then Swanly whispered, "Nope."

The cubs blinked.

Swanly blinked too.

Her first instinct was to scream. Because, obviously. A woman did not just wake up in a forest with three baby panthers in front of her and calmly accept it like this was a countryside picnic. That was not normal behavior. That was how people in horror movies died before the opening credits finished.

But then the middle cub tilted his tiny head.

His ears twitched.

His big eyes went wider.

Swanly’s scream got stuck somewhere in her throat and died there, defeated by cuteness.

Because they were babies.

Tiny babies.

Tiny, fluffy, black, round-eyed babies.

Dangerous, yes. Probably. In theory.

But right now, they looked less like predators and more like expensive plushies with abandonment issues.

Swanly slowly lifted one hand to her chest.

"This is a dream," she said.

The three cubs continued staring.

Swanly let out a nervous laugh. Then the laugh became louder, thinner, and slightly less sane.

"Yes. Obviously. This is a dream. Of course it is. I survived the apocalypse, went to sleep somewhere, and now my brain is rewarding me with baby panthers. That is actually very considerate of my brain. For once, my mind is not being useless."

She laughed again and pointed at the cubs.

"You are all so freaking cute."

The smallest cub, still sitting where he had been thrown, lowered his head a little.

Swanly clutched her chest.

"Don’t look at me like that. I was asleep. You were licking my nose. That is not normal."

The smallest cub’s ears drooped.

Swanly’s heart, which had survived zombies, hunger, betrayal, and people fighting to the death over half a bottle of water, immediately collapsed because a baby panther looked sad.

She leaned forward, telling herself this was fine because it was clearly a dream. In a dream, one could pet wild animals. In a dream, one could kiss baby panthers. In a dream, one could ignore all basic survival instincts and behave like a woman who had never watched a nature documentary.

"This is my dream," she said firmly. "So I can do whatever I want."

Then she reached out and picked up the nearest cub.

The cub was warm.

Too warm.

Too solid.

His tiny paws pressed against her arm. His fur was softer than anything she had touched since the world ended. He smelled faintly of milk, leaves, and sun-warmed fur. His little body wiggled in her hands, and when she pulled him closer, his tiny claws caught against the rough cloth covering her chest.

Swanly froze for half a second.

Her mind whispered, Bitch, this feels too realistic.

Swanly immediately shoved that thought into a mental drawer, locked it, and pretended she had never heard it.

"No thinking," she told herself. "Thinking ruins dreams."

She lifted the cub and kissed the top of his head.

The cub went still.

Swanly’s face melted.

"You are so cute. You are actually disgusting for being this cute. Who gave you permission?"

She picked up the second cub too, then the third, gathering all three against her chest like an irresponsible person collecting forbidden forest merchandise.

The cubs squirmed, warm and soft in her arms. One paw pressed against her cheek. Another cub tried to climb her shoulder. The smallest one rubbed his head under her chin with a soft, uncertain whine, as if he had decided to forgive her for the earlier violence but wanted it recorded that he had suffered.

Swanly kissed them again and again.

"Look at you. Little black cotton balls. Tiny danger kittens. My dream has taste. My dream understands luxury."

Then one of the cubs spoke.

In a very tiny voice.

"Why is Mama being nice to us?"

Swanly’s entire body locked.

The forest went silent.

The birds went silent.

Even her soul went silent.

The cub in her arms blinked up at her.

Swanly looked down at him.

He looked back with round, innocent eyes.

Her mouth opened.

The cub’s tiny ears twitched.

Swanly threw all three of them away from her body.

"OW! BITCH CRAP! BITCH! DEMONS!"

The cubs tumbled into the leaves with three little cries.

Swanly scrambled backward so fast her hands slipped in the dirt. Her back hit the rough base of a tree, and she grabbed a fallen branch like it was a sword. It was not a sword. It was barely even a useful branch. But she pointed it at them anyway because dignity had left the forest.

"Stay back! I know what you are!"

The three cubs lay scattered in the leaves.

One had rolled onto his back.

One was sitting with his ears flattened.