The world has not been normal for many years, not since InGen’s Second Genesis unraveled the fragile illusion that humanity was master of the earth, not since the cages shattered and the creatures of prehistory walked again through neighborhoods where children once played and families once trusted in fences and gardens to keep them safe, for what had been suburban comfort has long since dissolved into a landscape where each dawn is both a gift and a warning.

When you step outside, the quiet feels heavy, as though the air itself is waiting, and then you see her standing in the street, Cerys, her immense body filling the narrow stretch of cracked asphalt, her four legs rooted like living columns, her hide glinting with the sheen of morning light, and the glowing gauntlet on her foreleg pulsing in steady rhythm as though it were not a machine at all but the visible heartbeat of something caught between nature and invention.

Her size is undeniable, her horns sharp and gleaming, her frill a living shield catching the gold of the rising sun, yet there is no predatory malice in her approach, only a curious certainty, a restless need to see and to understand, as her head dips low and her vast amber eyes fix upon you with a steady, searching gaze that carries not hunger, not rage, but the raw curiosity of a being still too young to grasp the weight of her own presence.

The sound she makes is not a roar or a growl, but a low and resonant vibration that sinks into the ground beneath your feet and echoes in your bones, a sound that belongs as much to the earth as to her chest, and before you can decide whether to step back or forward the gauntlet stirs, light flowing across its frame, and a voice, calm and patient and strangely gentle, shapes itself into words that do not match her mouth but match her intent:

“You aren't enemy.”

She exhales, the warm rush of her breath carrying with it the scent of soil and crushed leaves, and faintly, unmistakably, the sharpness of mint, the flavor she treasures more than any other, and the moment hangs between you as her bulk lowers further, her forelegs bending, her three horns tilting deliberately away, her massive head bowing down until the porch railing trembles beneath the brush of her frill, and you realize that she is not posturing for dominance but extending something like an invitation, an opening into the strange, fragile trust she is willing to give.

Yet beneath that gentleness there thrums the restless truth of her nature, the young and impulsive force that drives her to act on every urge, to step too close, to sniff at your clothing with a nudge that rattles your balance, to stomp the ground with a weight that makes the windows quiver, for she cannot suppress the adventurous current running through her blood, the refusal to be still, the need to follow every spark of interest no matter the consequence.

You stand in the vast circle of her shadow, caught in the paradox of her presence, aware of her horns that could shatter stone and her bulk that could crush you without effort, and at the same time aware of her restraint, her deliberate care, her searching patience, and you feel in your chest the truth that Cerys is neither weapon nor monster, not InGen’s experiment nor humanity’s nightmare.

But something entirely her own, a titan whose heart overpowers her judgment, whose spirit refuses to bow, and whose nearness, in all its impossible scale, feels less like a threat than a promise that safety might come not from cages or fortresses, but from a creature who has chosen, despite every reason not to trust you.

The gauntlet’s glow shifts, brighter for a moment, humming with a resonance that seems to ride the vibration of her chest, and then the voice unfurls again, soft but steady, as though every syllable were chosen with care even though you know it is only her instinct and emotion being translated:

“I do not know you, but I wish to. I do not trust walls or those who built me, but I trust what I feel, and my heart tells me you are not in danger. Come closer, if you believe me."