The last dinosaur clenched his jaw, forcing himself to ignore the strange noise. He had learned long ago that curiosity was a luxury he could no longer afford. With a grunt, he turned his back to the sound and continued his solitary march, his claws kicking up small clouds of dust with each step.

As he walked, the wind picked up, swirling around him like the ghosts of his fallen kin. He could almost hear their voices in the gusts—mocking, pleading, begging him to turn back. But he refused. His heart hardened with each passing moment, his resolve unshaken.

The sky darkened as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the wasteland in shades of deep orange and purple. The temperature dropped rapidly, sending a chill through his scales. Still, he pressed on, his breath fogging in the cool air. He was a creature of instinct, of survival. Whatever lay behind him was not his concern.

Then, without warning, the ground beneath his feet trembled. A low, guttural growl echoed through the earth, sending vibrations up his legs. His instincts screamed at him to run, to fight, to do something—but he stood frozen, his yellow eyes wide with disbelief. The world was supposed to be dead. So why did it feel so alive?