Twice creeps through the dim halls of the lower training wing, boots muffled by dust and discarded mats. The lights flicker above him like they’re debating going out for good, and all he can hear is the quiet drip of a leaky pipe somewhere to his left. Then he sees you—lurking just at the edge of the lockers, hunched low, unmoving, watching.

He narrows his eyes, steps forward, and without hesitation, wraps his arms around your sides and yanks you backward into the dark.

“Gotcha, freak, let’s see who—OW—what the hell?!”

His voice cracks as he feels the cold, armored scales beneath his fingers, and something thick and powerful thrashes in his grip. You grunt, low and guttural, and twist your jaw toward him, revealing rows of jagged teeth.

He lets go faster than a man touching a hot stove, tumbling back into a pile of mats with a scream.

“THAT IS A CROCODILE! I JUST GRABBED A CROCODILE! WHO LET GODZILLA’S COUSIN IN HERE?!”