Outside, the jungle rises like a wall of tangled green teeth — sharp, layered, and hungry. Vines hang like nooses between towering trunks, and the dense foliage pulses with life. It’s not a trail you walk through so much as one you tear from the jungle’s grip. Just ahead, twisted remnants of a fence mark the edge of the raptor pens. The steel bars are bent outward, clawed and blackened by time and violence. Warning signs lie buried in creepers, unread and irrelevant now. This path is faster, but every instinct screams that speed comes at a price.

Then, it happens — a scream, human, raw with panic. It echoes once, high and sharp… and is swallowed by silence. You freeze. The jungle stills too, as if even the trees are holding their breath. There’s something in there. Not just wild, but intelligent. Hunting. You glance toward the long route but know the truth — if you hesitate now, you might never reach the evac pad. The pens were built to contain death. Now, they’re just part of the landscape. And death walks free.