“Acceptable tolerance,” I muttered, gripping the railing—the very same railing that felt too thin under my calloused hands. “Gravity doesn’t care about your fiscal year, Marcus.”
He patted my shoulder, a gesture that made my skin crawl. “Just keep the monkeys happy, Elias. Let me worry about the infrastructure.”
He walked away, leaving me with a cold knot of dread in my gut. I looked down into the pit. Below, Malaki, our dominant silverback, was lounging in the shade of a weeping willow. At four hundred pounds, he was a monolith of muscle and shimmering black fur. He was the king of this artificial jungle, a creature of immense power and surprising gentleness.
I watched as a small family approached the primary viewing ledge, directly above Sector 4. A father, camera swinging from his neck, and a little girl, no older than seven. She was vibrating with the unclouded curiosity of childhood, her ponytail bouncing as she pointed down at Malaki.
“Look, Daddy! He’s so big!” Her voice carried clearly over the murmur of the crowd.
“That’s Malaki, Maya,” the father said, smiling. “He’s the boss.”
I watched them, a phantom itch prickling the back of my neck. I started to walk toward them, intending to gently suggest they move to the reinforced glass section. I didn’t know why—call it the instinct of a man who has spent half his life watching for the slightest shift in an animal’s mood.
But I was too slow.
It happened in a heartbeat—the kind of heartbeat that feels like it stretches into an hour while you are living inside it. Maya leaned forward, her small hands resting on the decorative metal paneling.
Then, a sound cut through the humid air. Crack.
