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

The air in the valley hung heavy, thick with the scent of pine ash and smoldering resin. Just hours ago, a lightning strike turned a lush Cretaceous slope into a wasteland of charred sticks.

You crouched behind the blackened stump of a redwood, holding your breath, your camera lens covered in a light dusting of soot. The silence was broken only by the crackle of a dying branch.

Then, you saw it — an Atrociraptor.

It was smaller than a Velociraptor, covered in striking, mottled plumage of red and grey that blended surprisingly well with the stark monochrome landscape. It moved like a bird—deliberate, head bobbing, its claws clicking on the fire-hardened earth. It wasn't stalking you; it was watching the ground, its gaze locked on the wood-boring beetles lured by the scent of fresh wood and smoke.

With a lightning-fast snap of its jaws, it snatched a large, iridescent beetle from a burnt log. You shifted, your boot crunching on charcoal.

The Atrociraptor froze. It didn't scream or run. It turned its head, fixing its golden eyes directly on your position. There was no fear, only intense calculation, but the intelligence in its eyes was unnerving…