Piraг±a — 1

Mateo looked at his toe. A tiny, perfect scratch sat right on the tip, a single bead of blood blooming like a ruby. "He touched me," Mateo whispered, his bravado gone.

Mateo didn't put his feet back down. For the rest of the afternoon, he watched the river, certain he could see a hundred pairs of tiny, unblinking eyes waiting just beneath the surface for Piraña Two. PiraГ±a 1

For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then, the water didn't just ripple—it boiled . Mateo looked at his toe

But it was the mouth that froze Mateo’s blood. The fish snapped at the air, revealing rows of triangular, razor-sharp teeth that clicked together with the sound of a closing trap. Mateo didn't put his feet back down

His grandfather, Abuelo Tomas, sat nearby, repairing a woven fishing net with hands that looked like gnarled driftwood.

"That was Piraña One," Tomas said, his voice dropping to a low rumble. "The scout. The one who tells the others that something soft has entered the territory."