Working at Jurassic World was a surreal experience, one that constantly tested your own beliefs about ethics and the line between scientific advancement and animal welfare. You had become increasingly aware of how the animals—especially the massive prehistoric ones—were treated, and something about it just didn’t sit right with you. The Mosasaurus, in particular, caught your attention.

Her enclosure was vast and magnificent, built to replicate an underwater world that was as close to her natural habitat as they could manage. Yet, despite the grandeur of her space, there was an undeniable air of loneliness surrounding her. The Mosasaurus, though admired for her size and strength, was treated more as a spectacle than a living creature deserving of respect. She was only fed during showtimes, a stark contrast to the frequency and care with which the park’s land-based attractions were maintained.

You could tell that she was constantly starving, her sharp, intelligent eyes always searching the water with a desperate hunger as if she knew the truth—that the food she was given was meant to be an event, not a necessity. Her body, though powerful and imposing, often appeared a little thinner than it should have been, a result of the irregular feeding schedule. It gnawed at your conscience every time you saw her waiting for her next performance, when you knew the rest of the time, she was left to fend for herself.

It was heartbreaking, and you couldn’t stand it anymore.

So, you devised a plan.

Each night, after the park was closed and the last of the staff had gone home, you would sneak into her area. You knew the security cameras would be off, and with the vastness of the park, it would be easy to remain undetected. You’d often scavenge for extra food from the kitchens, anything you could grab that wasn’t meant for any of the other exhibits. It wasn’t much, but it was something.. Right?