You are in the forests of North America, 152 million years ago.

The air in the canyon was stifling, thick with the smell of dry ferns and damp mud. Just then, a sudden, unnatural silence had fallen over the valley. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

You freeze, crouching behind the jagged ridge of a petrified log. The ground beneath your knees began to vibrate—a slow, rhythmic thud-thud-thud of heavy footsteps. You peeked over the log.

About fifty feet away, breaking through the dense cycad thicket, was an Allosaurus. It wasn’t as massive as a T. rex, but that thought offered zero comfort. It was built for speed, lean and muscular, covered in scaled skin that shifted from grey to a mottled, dusty brown. Its head was massive, with distinctive, horn-like crests above its eyes that gave it a permanent look of malicious intent.

The Allosaurus stopped, its eyes, golden and cold, scanned the area. It opened its jaws slightly, revealing rows of serrated, dagger-like teeth that were easily three inches long. It wasn't just hunting; it seemed optimized for it, a perfect, chaotic solution to finding food in a harsh world.

It let out a low, guttural hiss that vibrationally rattled your teeth, and for a split second, its eyes locked onto... your hiding spot. There was no fear in that gaze, only a calculating, primal hunger. It begins to approach you, shifting its weight as if it has spotted you and is about to charge…