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

The water was warm and hazy in the shallow Cretaceous seaway, the sun-dappled surface far above. You were suspended in the blue-green haze when a sudden shift in the light caught your attention. It was a flash—a synchronized flicker of metallic silver passing through the water column.

You froze, allowing yourself to drift as a tight, cohesive group of Enchodus passed by.

There were perhaps twenty of them, each about four feet long, sleek, and fast. They moved with a terrifying precision, unlike the casual meandering of modern schooling fish. Their bodies were slender, covered in thick scales that reflected the sunlight, but it was the heads that made your heart race. Even with their mouths closed, you could see the tip of the massive, sabre-like fangs—the "saber-tooth" teeth—jutting upward and downward from their jaws, reminiscent of modern viperfish.

One of the largest in the pack turned its massive eyes toward you, revealing the sheer predatory intelligence behind them. They were not just a school; they were a strike team of "wolves of the sea".