The ocelot walked over, her gait slow even before she halts at the fringes of the group. She can't bear to force herself further, as there's an invisible pressure pulsing in the air that keeps her from forcing her way forward. Rosemary hates crowds - but, more than that, she's terrified of them. She breathes, deep and slow, as she keeps her four eyes locked on Pincher, willing herself to ignore the crowd.

Her jaw clenches as she hears her name called out for yet another shout-out; her chin lowers, as she hates how he keeps mentioning her when she feels she doesn't deserve it. She is incompetent at her job as a high position, hardly ever there to greet joiners and avoiding crowds the best she can without raising suspicion. But she wants to get better, so she holds these lofty goals for herself - only to beat herself up for failing to reach them, like she's doing now. Mutely nodding, she pulls her thoughts into improving her attempts at meeting her own expectations; she has her weekly tasks for her mambas to plan.

© MADI