Dear Diary,
Today, amidst the ruins of this broken world, I encountered a group of survivors—a motley crew of souls bound together by the frail threads of hope and desperation.
They approached me cautiously, their eyes wary but hopeful, as if I were some kind of savior sent to deliver them from the darkness. Little did they know that salvation was a concept as foreign to me as kindness.
They spoke of sanctuary, of a place where the dead could not tread and the living could find refuge from the horrors that plagued our world. They offered me a place among them, a chance to join their ragtag band of misfits and seek solace in their company.
I could have turned them away, but there was something in their eyes, a glimmer of innocence amidst the chaos—a glimmer that stirred something deep within me.
And so, against my better judgment, I agreed to accompany them, my mind already whirring with thoughts of opportunity and advantage.
As we made our way through the desolate streets, I kept a watchful eye on my newfound companions, studying their every move for signs of weakness or vulnerability. They chattered amongst themselves, their voices a cacophony of hope and fear, oblivious to the predator in their midst.
But I am no fool. I know that in this world of the dead, trust is a commodity best kept in short supply. And as we journeyed towards our supposed sanctuary, I couldn't help but wonder—how long would it be before they became little more than fresh meat to satisfy my hunger?
End of Diary Entry.