You are in the coastal swamps of North America, 70 million years ago.

The air in the Cretaceous valley was thick, smelling of fern and humid mud. You had been tracking a herd of Edmontosaurus through the forested ridge, but the jungle suddenly went silent. The gentle rustling of leaves stopped. The chirping insects and distant calls of hadrosaurs ceased as a 30-foot shadow detached itself from the dense conifers.

An Albertosaurus—sleeker than its famous cousin but no less terrifying—stepped onto the riverbank, its reptilian, pebbly hide shifting as it locked its piercing, forward-facing eyes directly on you. Its massive skull, adorned with low horns above the eyes, tilted, revealing a mouth full of serrated, banana-shaped teeth designed for ripping flesh. As you froze, you could hear its rhythmic, deep breathing and feel the heavy vibration of its footsteps, a living apex predator observing a moment of paralyzing fear.