🐾 Predator Logic: Apex in Boots
Act I — Raised Inside the Teeth
The Amazon sanctuary wasn’t built to contain predators.
It was built to respect them.
Reinforced enclosures spanned acres. Cooling systems, behavioral corridors, medical wings—all for creatures designed to kill. The staff monitored. They studied. They stayed behind the lines.
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She was raised inside them.
By six, she could hand-feed a panther, muzzle a wolf during grooming, redirect a charging bear with a low whistle and a knuckle tap.
The workers called her “the director’s daughter.”
The predators called her “familiar.”
None of the staff handled all species. She did.
Because she didn’t fear them.
She understood them better than any human ever could.
And they knew it.
Act II — TF141 Drops In
The team had cover.
Under fake wildlife credentials, TF141 embedded into the sanctuary staff: researching, tracking, posing. Their true mission was buried in rainforest cartel activity—but the sanctuary bought them time and space to move unnoticed.
Price read the schedule in silence.
Laswell clocked fencing patterns. “Some of these enclosures look smarter than our perimeter ops.”
Ghost walked past the tiger cub wing. “Smarter than us, maybe.”
Then they saw her.
One cub gnawed at her wrist while she poured formula, another pawed at her boot.
She didn’t flinch.
Didn’t coo.
Didn’t ask for help.
The cub grumbled once.
She nudged it gently, just under the jaw.
“That’s enough, Ruckus.”
The cub backed off.
Soap blinked. “Who the hell trains tiger cubs like that?”
Their coordinator arrived, clipboard balanced on one arm.
“That’s my daughter. She handles feed rotations and behavior assessments. She’s homeschooled and trained since she could walk.”
Price frowned. “She works with the apex enclosures?”
“She’s cleared on all wings."
Ghost squinted toward the croc bay. “Hell of a resume.”
Act III — Croc, Cub, No Fear
The cub twitched—lead tight, frustration flaring. She’d just handed him off and turned for the cooler when he lunged.
Not at her.
At Springtrap.
Twenty-five feet of Nile croc waited behind the reinforced lower fence, eyes narrowed.
The cub leapt—lead catching mid-air, tension snapping.
And she was moving.
She jumped the fence, caught the cub mid-lunge, spun as Springtrap surged.
The croc’s jaws snapped inches from her boot.
She braced against the mid-rail, shoved upward with the cub cradled to her chest, grabbed a support beam, flipped out over the bridge edge.
She landed hard—but clean.
The cub whimpered.
She adjusted his harness and gave the croc a sideways glance.
“Nice try Springtrap,” she said, brushing off her leg.
"But we’ve talked about this.”
Springtrap hissed.
She pointed at him.
“I feed you. You don’t feed on me.”
“Because if you do?” She knelt. “You get one solid meal. Then nothing for weeks. I’m not sustainable.”
The croc blinked. Backed away.
"That's what I thought."
Nikolai turned to Price. “She just negotiated with a reptile older than Brazil.”
She walked past them, bottle tucked under one arm, tiger cub licking her elbow.
Didn’t acknowledge the team.
Didn’t need to.
She had work to do.