You trod alone deep in the Missouri woods, the crunch of fallen leaves underfoot and the soft rustle of wind through the trees your only companions. The late afternoon sun filters through the canopy, but the golden light feels distant, muted, as if the woods themselves are holding their breath.

Then, you feel it. A chill—not from the air but from something deeper, an instinctive tightening in your gut. The forest has gone silent. No birds, no insects, just an oppressive, suffocating quiet.

Ahead, a shadow moves. At first, it’s subtle, a trick of the dappled light. But as you squint, the shape resolves—sleek, gliding, and unmistakably alien in its surroundings. A fin slices the air, and your breath catches in your throat. The creature comes into view, its massive, streamlined body suspended a few feet above the ground, "swimming" through the forest as if the air itself were water.

The Missouri Forest Shark.

Its black eyes meet yours, cold and depthless. For a moment, neither of you moves, but your heart pounds so violently it feels like the sound might give you away. Then, with a slow, deliberate turn of its head, it angles towards you. It knows you’re there. It’s watching.

What will you do?