Referenced from this image.

Blame Felisrandomis because she said she wanted me to draw more cats.

He only ever feels comfortable hunting alone.

It isn't the fault of his clanmates that he is so timid. He knows it's not. Most of them do too. He can't help but feel uncomfortable with the press of bodies in the warriors' den, or crowding around the fresh-kill pile for a meal. It suffocates him, makes him feel smothered even by the presence of cats he grew up with. Cats he was born with.

He always requests to hunt alone. The Clan must be fed first, and no cat can deny he's a good hunter. One of the best, but he can't fight, he can't lead patrols, and he can barely hold himself together during the few Gatherings he's ever brought to. Hunting's the only thing he can do for the Clan, so he hunts every day.

The forest is quiet. Calm. The squirrels, mice, and birds don't know what a laughable excuse for a warrior he is. Their only concern is not ending up in his jaws. He lifts his head, scenting the air, and as always, this is the only time he can breathe easy. No other cats near this patch of conifers, the air heavy with their scent and the scent of many, many prey animals unaware of his watching eyes.

Ears flick. Instinct lowers him into a crouch, eyes fixated on the crow a few foxlengths in front of him. It doesn't see him, doesn't hear. Not a single paw out of place as he creeps within striking distance. No twigs to snap beneath his pads, no errant leaf-fall leaves to crinkle beneath even the lightest step.

It's over quickly; he spares the old bird any pain with the quick bite and stands. For now, he'll bury it, hide it from scavengers until he can retrieve it at the end of his trip. Shoulders roll, stretching beneath the canopy of needles above him.

This is the only time he feels safe.