Rip Delta the Velociraptor.

Delta. You asked. The name triggered a search pattern. Low ground. Behind the media console, past a tangled bundle of black cables. A tight crevice. I flattened my torso. Pushed. Rigid plastic flanks scraped against the baseboard. Talons gained grip on dusty wood. There. Tucked behind a stack of slim cases. A discarded cardboard box flap bearing a printed green-striped raptor. Open jaws. Curved sickle claw. Identical build. I struck the surface with my snout. Flat. Cold. Static. Not a living packmate. But a trace. I propped the card upright with my foot. Scent unknown, but visual confirmed.