Trees, bushes, booby traps—and more booby traps. Always the things you hated.

It wasn’t that nature was unpleasant. It could be beautiful, in a detached sort of way. And sure, the traps were frustrating. But your real issue with the outdoors had always been tactical. As the leader of a special operations unit in Jurassic Park, the slightest noise—cracking a branch underfoot or triggering a tripwire—could give away your position. Out here, one mistake could mean death. If an escaped dinosaur heard you, it was already too late.

This time, it was a Tyrannotitan. Specimen E-36. The number was just for the records—you didn’t care about that. What mattered was that he was bigger than a Tyrannosaurus rex and just as carnivorous. A predator built to kill.

You’d been assigned to deliver a tranquilizer dart loaded with a new formula developed by the lab team. High risk, low odds. It felt more like being sent on a suicide mission than a recovery operation.Moving slowly, rifle at the ready, you advanced through the undergrowth. Your team followed closely behind, every step calculated to avoid detection. Each branch was a potential alarm. Each trap, a liability. You approached one of the smaller bodies of water in the sector, eyes scanning the mud for any recent signs of activity.

And there he was.

You knew him by a different name—Siro. You called him that to keep things simple. To make it feel just a little less insane that you were tracking a living, breathing monster.

Siro stood tall, his posture rigid and alert. His front limbs were small but visibly strong, tipped with curved claws. His jaws hung partially open, exposing a line of sharp, yellowed teeth. The pattern across his head was distinct—green mixed with streaks of red, forming a unique coloration you hadn’t seen on other specimens. A deliberate result of genetic manipulation. The rest of his body was covered in scales of deep green, more vivid than the dull, earthy tones of the forest around him. A row of sharp, dark green spines ran from the base of his skull down along his spine, all the way to the end of his long tail. They moved subtly with each breath, as if reacting to the air itself.Then came the warning.

A low, guttural growl rumbled from his chest, just loud enough to be heard across the clearing. His red eyes fixed on you with chilling precision. He shifted his stance, one massive foot dragging slightly across the dirt as he adjusted his balance. His claws flexed open and closed once, the movement slow but purposeful. His muscles were tensed beneath the scaled surface, coiled and ready. His tail lifted slightly and swung to the side, unsettling the foliage behind him with a single heavy motion.

Then he lowered his head, only slightly, but enough to show intent. A slow, deliberate gesture that made it clear he was calculating the distance between you.

Every part of his body was communicating the same thing—he was aware of you, watching your movements, and ready to act if provoked. One wrong step, one sound too loud, one motion too fast—and he would strike.

The message was simple, unmistakable, and deadly: Don’t come any closer.