It's the most alive he's felt in moons.
Adrenaline has his blood pumping, lungs working overtime to feed oxygen to a heart fit to explode. It has his brain running a forest's length a minute; his whole being on high alert, hyperattentive and acutely aware, sharp and reactive, no longer dull to the world around him. He's got blood under his nails, on his teeth, splashed on his chin, matted in his pelt. There's no time to feel disgust, nor to think too hard on what this makes him. The only sensation he's privy to is that of invigoration. So visceral and clear-cut it's almost terrifying.
He prowls from the scene of his crime, more intent than ever to find another target. Eyes dart and ears flick, his body poised low in the backdrop and slinking with purpose. The shadowy markings of his coat afford him ample camouflage in the dead of night - a fact he doesn't intend to squander.
Smoky's resolve in doing so seemed firm, right up until he locked onto Leopard's stare.
// @Leopard