Stand before this 8-meter Carnotaurus, and time seems to flex. Its bulk—thick limbs, a jaw that hints at raw power—feels like a bridge to a wilder age, yet there's a quiet alertness in how it holds itself, as if sensing the world around.
Step in, and the presence deepens. Scales catch the light with a rough, lived-in texture; the curve of its spine suggests motion frozen mid-step. It doesn't demand awe—it sparks it, a slow recognition of something both foreign and vivid.
In any setting, it finds its rhythm. Not as a display, but a presence—one that makes a room feel larger, more alive, as if the past has leaned in for a moment.
