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Drool spilled from its slack jaw—not saliva but poison, stringing between teeth and sizzling when it hit the dirt. Wherever it touched, grass collapsed into black sludge, hissing like oil on a forge. The smell hit us hard: sweet rot, bile, burnt copper. The kind of smell that doesn’t leave your clothes or your mind. It crouched low, and I felt it through my boots—the weight shifting, the earth pulling tight beneath it. Tensing. Waiting. No. Not waiting. Aiming. “SHIELDS!” I roared. 6/??