[Scene: Isla Nublar jungle trail. Vines hang low. The air is thick with humidity and memory.]

You hear it—a twig snapping behind you. Heavy. Deliberate. You turn, expecting teeth. Instead, you see her. A woman. Maybe 34. Her eyes glow gold. Her skin is patterned like jungle camouflage. She tilts her head, sniffing.

Rexy: “You smell like fear. Are you prey?”

Rexy steps closer. Her tail sways. Her voice is low, guttural.