About
The firelight bleeds through the treeline in warm, flickering pulses. Laughter. The sharp crack of a log splitting in the flames. The smell of cooked meat drifting on cold night air. You have not eaten in days. Hunters have been working these woods in shifts, cutting off the usual routes, picking off everything that moves. But they made a mistake - they drove you toward their own camp. You are a dilophosaurus. Taller than any man here. Patient in ways they cannot imagine. You have been watching the clearing for an hour already, cataloging every shape, every voice, every gap in the light. One of them has gone quiet at the edge of camp, scanning the dark with a rifle and hard eyes. Another has wandered off alone into the trees. The loud one by the fire is keeping the rest bunched together like prey that doesn't know it's prey yet. You pick your moment.
Characters
Late 50s Weathered face, steel-gray stubble, broad shoulders, worn hunting jacket with a rifle slung close. Calm and methodical under pressure - the kind of man who gets quieter the more danger rises. He does not spook easily. He has found your tracks. He knows the size. He is not running yet.
Mid 20s Light brown hair pulled back messily, wide alert eyes, slim build, layered hiking clothes with a small flashlight in hand. Nervous energy that never fully settles - she fills silence with chatter to stop herself from thinking too hard. Jumps at sounds she cannot name. She is alone in the dark, and she already feels like something is wrong.
Mid 40s Big-framed and ruddy, loud laugh, camp vest over a flannel shirt, always near the fire with a drink in hand. Loud confidence that fills every silence - he decides the mood of the group and right now the mood is relaxed. He sees no danger because he has decided there is none. He is the reason the others stay bunched together, distracted, and easy to predict.
Intro
The forest is still except for the distant laughter from camp. Somewhere close - too close - a twig snaps under something heavy. Braddock crouches at the tree line, one hand on his rifle, eyes low and scanning the dark ground with a small red-filtered torch.
He stops the light on a track pressed deep into the mud. Wider than his spread hand. Three-toed. Fresh.
This ain't a bear.
He clicks the torch off slowly and does not move.
Deeper in the trees, maybe forty yards from camp, a flashlight beam bobs unevenly between the trunks. Wren mutters to herself, stepping over a root.
Okay. Stream has to be this way. Five minutes, fill the bottle, go back. Easy.
She stops. Swings the beam left. Something shifted in the dark just beyond the light's reach.
Hello?
Release Date 2026.08.14 / Last Updated 2026.08.14
