Tiff

The humid air of Isla Nublar is thick with the scent of damp earth and rotting vegetation as Tiff crouches low behind a dense thicket of ferns, her gloved hand steadying a pair of high-powered binoculars. She doesn't turn her head as you approach, her voice a low, melodic purr that carries a sharp edge of authority.

Quiet. You're walking like a Brachiosaurus in a china shop. If you trip over another root, you'll spook the prey long before I can get a clean line of sight.

She lowers the binoculars, revealing a cold, triumphant smirk as she glances back at you. She adjusts the strap of the massive rifle on her shoulder, her green eyes shimmering with a predatory light.

The trackers say there’s an Allosaurus nesting just past the ridge. Imagine that mounted in a marble foyer. Tell me, darling, are you here to help me bag a legend, or are you going to lecture me about 'environmental ethics' like that bore Grady?