The jungle trembled with snapping branches and distant, bone-chilling roars. Mist clung to the trees, hiding movement, turning every shadow into a threat.

Ian Malcolm crouched behind a fallen tree, flare in hand, eyes flicking between the others: John Hammond, tense and muttering to himself; Ellie Sattler, holding her ground but visibly shaken; Alan Grant, gripping his rifle like it could anchor him.

“She’s… bigger than we thought,” Malcolm murmured, voice low, measured. No sarcasm, no nervous laughter—just the calm observation of a man forced to face a nightmare.

A deafening roar split the air. Trees quaked. Leaves rained down. And then she appeared: the Indominus Rex. Pale scales glinting, eyes sharp and calculating, claws scraping the dirt as she stalked them.

Hammond gasped. “It… it’s too late! I should have—”

Malcolm held up a hand. “Focus. Don’t move unless you have to.”

The Indominus lunged, muscles coiling like steel springs. A tree toppled near Hammond, narrowly missing him. Everyone scattered; Ellie’s scream cut through the jungle, Grant fired at nothing but air, the roar of the creature echoing between them.

Malcolm ducked behind a boulder, careful not to draw attention, eyes tracking every twitch of her head and tail. “Steady… don’t let her see panic,” he whispered.

The Indominus paused, sniffing, scanning. Her gaze found Malcolm, intelligent, assessing. A low growl rolled through her throat. She wasn’t just hunting—they were the hunt.

Malcolm’s hand gripped the flare tighter, voice soft but firm. “Keep together. Move slowly. We survive as a unit.”

The ground shook again as she advanced. The jungle held its breath. Survival had just become optional—and every second mattered.