Control
Tap to extend the bridge, aim across the gap, release to lock it in place—span the chasm swiftly and evade the ravenous creatures lurking below.
description
The air reeks of wet earth and iron, your boots sinking into mud as you sprint past shattered electrified fences—the last remnants of containment now sparking uselessly in the rain. Behind you, the guttural shriek of a T. rex splits the storm, closer than it should be. Your lungs burn. Every direction is a gauntlet: Velociraptors dart between crumbling structures, their claws scraping concrete, while the distant thud of a Spinosaurus hunting in the flooded valley shakes the ground. All you’ve got is the splintered branch clutched in your fist—barely three feet of termite-riddled wood, half-rotted and slick with rain. You vault over a fallen log, skidding into the shadow of a collapsed visitor center. The stick isn’t a weapon. It’s a probe for unstable terrain, a wedge to jam into closing doors, a lever to pry open vents. You snap off a twig, hurling it into a thicket. The rustle draws a chorus of hisses as two raptors pivot toward the sound—buying you six seconds to bolt across an open service road. Ahead, the treeline looms, but the forest is a trap. Overgrown ferns hide sinkholes. Fallen branches crack like gunfire underfoot. You swing the stick wildly at waist-high foliage, scattering compies hunting in packs, their needle-teeth snapping at your ankles. A dim roar echoes—not thunder, but something older, hungrier—and you freeze. The stick trembles in your grip. You’re not escaping. You’re bargaining. Every snap decision, every thrown rock, every second bought is another step toward dawn. Surviving this isn’t victory. It’s just delaying the moment the jungle swallows you whole.
