You are in the river plains of South America, 90 million years ago.

The air in the Cretaceous marshland was thick and silent, a bad sign. You were scanning the herd of juvenile titanosaurs when the panicked scatter started.

It emerged from the tree line, nearly twenty-five feet long but alarmingly slender compared to the heavily built tyrannosaurs. It didn't move like them, either—it was fast, agile, and terrifyingly light on its feet. Its dark feathers blended with the swamp brush, but there was nothing subtle about its hands.

As it closed the distance on the nearest fleeing young titanosaur, it didn't lean in with its jaws first. It swung its arms.

The Megaraptor relied on its massive, over-foot-long sickle-shaped claws—not on its feet, but on its thumbs—to grapple its prey. The creature moved sideways, angling its deadly, razor-clawed hands like grappling hooks. The sound was a harsh rip, a horrifying tearing noise as it struck the flank of the young titanosaur.

The hunter didn't wait to fight a long battle. With a sharp, piercing screech, it took a swift, axe-like bite to inflict a massive, bleeding wound, relying on its speed to bleed its prey dry.

Just as the beast was about to feast on its fallen prize, it senses your presence. Sniffing the air, it then turned its head toward your hiding spot, feathered plumage shifting on its neck, its gaze intense and intelligent. A low, growling hiss escapes from its throat as it locks onto you…