I know this angle. I remember standing there. I remember the smell of damp earth and metal, the low murmur of voices, the way the barrier felt solid beneath my hands.
We watch ourselves approach the railing.
The footage is unforgiving in its clarity. No emotion. No interpretation. Just bodies moving through space.
Marie is there—laughing, animated, leaning forward too far. I see myself hesitate, a half-step behind, my posture already tense.
I remember that feeling. The unease I couldn't name.
On screen, Marie climbs.
Not slips.
Not stumbles.
Sheclimbs.
While all of us are distracted, she swings a leg over the barrier like she's testing it, playful and reckless. Someone off-screen laughs.
I feel my stomach drop.
The footage shows her perching higher, gripping the rail, leaning dangerously close to the edge. The gorilla moves below, massive and slow.
"This isn't—" Marie sobs into Drake's chest, but her voice is drowned out by the quiet horror in the room.
Then she lets go.
She throws herself forward.
The fall isn't graceful. She hits the ground hard, rolling, limbs flailing as she lands inside the enclosure. Dust kicks up around her.
The room goes dead silent.
No one breathes.
I don't flinch.
I already knew.
I'd felt it in my bones that day—that something about her fall was wrong. That it hadn't been an accident in the way everyone insisted it was. That it sure as hell wasn't me.
On screen, chaos erupts. People scream. Alarms blare. I see myself rush forward, arms out, panic written all over my posture.
I see Ragon—later. Too late.
The footage ends.
The tablet goes dark.
For a long moment, no one moves.
Marie's wailing fills the silence now, louder, more frantic. "I didn't mean to. I didn't think—I just—"
Drake holds her tighter, eyes wide, face pale.
Jasper stares at the blank screen, jaw clenched so hard I can see the muscle jumping.
Ragon turns slowly toward me.
