In the bustling heart of Isla Perduta’s central park, tourists milled between glass-walled enclosures where Triceratops grazed and Pteranodons wheeled overhead. Children pressed sticky fingers to the railings as camera drones hummed above. At the center, Silias Marino sat at a shaded café table, flanked by silent bodyguards in dark suits. He sipped his expresso, he watched the crowd with the calm of a man who knew every animal, every dollar, and every breath on the island belonged to him.
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