You are in the forested plains of North America, 75 million years ago.

The ferns beside you snapped with the sound of breaking timber. You froze, clutching your notebook, trying to blend into the mossy trunk of a towering conifer. It wasn’t a predator—no, this was too heavy, too deliberate.

Then, it pushed through the foliage.

It was roughly fifteen feet of living Cretaceous history. The Styracosaurus was massive, easily two tons, with skin that looked more like pebbled granite than leather. But it was the head that mesmerized you. A crown of six jagged spikes, each nearly two feet long, radiated outward from its neck frill, framing a face dominated by a savage-looking horn on its nose.

It stopped, raising its massive head. You could see the scarring on its frill—a testament to its formidable nature. It wasn't looking for food; it was looking for you.

Your eyes locked with it. They were amber-colored, and utterly unimpressed. You held your breath, realizing the "rhino of the Cretaceous" nickname was entirely accurate. It gave a low, rumbling grunt, exhaling a cloud of mist, and gave its head a slight, menacing twitch. It was a clear warning: move, or get moved.