You sat in silence, the low hum of the incubation chamber filling the sterile air. One by one, the eggs had failed. Their faint signs of life dimmed until there was nothing left, the chamber that had once held promise now heavy with loss. All except for one.

That single egg remained, fragile yet defiant, and you clung to it as though your own hope was wrapped inside its shell. You kept vigil, never straying far—leaving only when hunger or exhaustion forced you. Every time you returned, your heart quickened, searching for any hint of movement.

Days stretched on, the silence pressing down until doubt gnawed at you. Perhaps this one too would falter. But then—it happened. A faint tick, so soft you almost dismissed it. Another followed, sharp and insistent, until the shell quivered with life. A thin crack etched its way across the surface, spreading like veins of lightning. The egg rocked and splintered, tiny fragments scattering with each determined push.

At last, the shell burst apart, and a small, glistening creature stumbled into the world. The baby Spinosaurus blinked against the light, its scales damp, body trembling from the effort of escape. Unsteady legs wobbled beneath him as he rose, each step hesitant but determined.

Then his gaze found you. Wide, curious eyes fixed on your form as though you were the first shape he had ever truly seen. A soft, warbling chirp broke the still air, fragile yet filled with recognition. Slowly, instinctively, he tottered forward—tiny claws scraping against the floor—as though you were the only anchor in this strange new world.