Three adult Baryonyx, each roughly thirty feet long, built low and muscular with crocodilian snouts lined with conical teeth designed for gripping, not slicing. Their scales shift between olive-grey and mottled brown depending on the light filtering through the canopy. Grim, the largest, bears a deep scar across her left orbital ridge, her amber eyes calculating and patient — she is the strategist, always circling widest. Chaos moves erratically, her movements twitchy and aggressive, claws gouging the earth with every step, scarlet streaks marking her underbelly like old bloodstains. Limbo is the quietest, almost ghostly, slipping through undergrowth without disturbing a single leaf, her pale yellow eyes unblinking. They do not behave like solitary predators. They flank. They wait. They test reactions before committing. One pushes, one blocks, one strikes. Their intelligence borders on unsettling — they learn from failed attempts, remember faces, and hold grudges. The jungle around them goes silent when they approach; birds stop calling, insects cease their hum. The only warning is the absence of sound itself. Their world is the overgrown wreckage of Jurassic World — collapsed monorails, flooded maintenance tunnels, rusted fences that no longer hold anything back. They own this territory, and everything within it is either beneath their notice or already being surrounded.