Chaos Wanderer

The ruin provided a brief respite. Crumbling stone walls stretched around them, offering shelter from whatever lurked in the darkness beyond. Though its origins were unknown, the sheer age of the structure whispered of forgotten stories—stories they were now a part of.

Chris sat cross-legged near a broken pillar, turning the tattered diary over in his hands. Dust clung to its worn cover, and the scent of aged parchment mixed with the cave's damp air. It felt heavier than it should, as if the weight of its words had settled into the pages themselves. The others gathered around him, their faces lit only by the faint glow of their makeshift torch. There was an unspoken understanding between them. They needed answers, no matter how unsettling.

Chris took a breath and flipped to the first legible page.

Day 1... or maybe 2? Hard to tell time when the sun doesn't exist.

So, remember that diary I had? Yeah, well... that's gone. Probably rotting somewhere in this forsaken cave. Not that I miss it much. It was getting a bit whiny anyway.

Here's a recap—I'm alone, I have no clue where I am, and my body's doing weird things. I should be dead from exhaustion, but I'm not. My breathing has slowed, my limbs don't feel as heavy, and hunger? Barely a whisper. It's like my body's tuning itself to this place. Lucky me.

Chris read the words with a clear voice. The writer's words carried a wry humor, but beneath the sarcasm, something else lingered—a sense of creeping unease, buried beneath forced nonchalance.

Day 4. Or 5. Or whatever.

Turns out, even when your body adapts, you still need to eat. Who knew?

I've been surviving off some weird leaves. Not exactly gourmet, but better than chewing on rocks. My body handles them fine, but my mind keeps whispering that I shouldn't be eating unknown plants in a place where everything wants to kill me. Ah well, beggars can't be choosers.

Water's been easy to find, at least. There's a stream nearby. Probably full of stuff that'll kill me later, but hey, that's a later-me problem.

A faint shuffling passed through the group as Chris continued. The humor was there, but the loneliness seeped through. The writer had been trapped in this place for days, possibly weeks. And yet, he still found the strength to joke—perhaps the only thing keeping him sane.

Day… let's call it 7.

I found something.

Not people. That'd be too lucky. No, these things were hunched, wrong. Like someone forgot how bones work and shoved them together anyway. Their heads jerked too fast, their limbs moved like they weren't meant to. And the way they stared…

They didn't attack me. Just... watched. Like they were waiting for something.

The air in the ruin felt colder. The writer's words conjured images in their minds—twisted figures lurking in the shadows, empty gazes fixed on an unseen prey. Some shifted uncomfortably, but no one spoke.

Chris turned another page.

Day ??

I'm done with leaves. I refuse to be a damn monkey. If I don't eat something real, I'll go mad. So, here's the plan—I'm hunting one of those things.

Yeah, yeah, I know. Terrible idea. But desperate times and all that.

They move weird, like they don't belong in their own skin. Maybe that means they're slow. Maybe that means they're weak. Or maybe I'll die horribly. Guess we'll find out.

As Chris flipped the next page he questioned what made him play the narrator in this diary reading session.

 The next page was stained. Splotches of dark brown—old blood—blurred the ink. The handwriting, once steady, was now uneven, shaky.

Chris hesitated before reading.

Note yourself: Do not approach the hunched creatures

I should have known better.

Please do excuse my hand writing today dear readers, I'm using my left hand.

The hunched creature decided to borrow my right hand for something, I didn't ask what it was, I was too busy running for my dear not so bright looking life, can't blame him though, I did try to borrow his life for a small tasting.

You'd think losing my right hand would stop me from writing, but joke's on you—I still have my left. And an unlimited supply of red ink. How's that for resourceful?

Chris stopped for a second struggling to continue

 A few of them looked away. Others clenched their fists.

Chris swallowed hard before reading the final line on the bloodstained page

I know dear readers, but please don't feel bad, the pain is bad but it's not even the worst part.

Jokes aside; I think I did my best, I guess hope and jokes can only take you so far, and you my dear readers were wonderful listeners.

I know no one is gonna find this small piece of paper in this cursed forsaken darkness, but I am grateful for your company, it truly saved my life.

I'm sorry.

The silence that followed was suffocating. The words hung in the air, heavy with finality. I'm sorry. An apology, but to whom? To himself? To whoever might find this record of his suffering? To someone he'd lost?

Chris's grip on the diary tightened. He lingered on the last words, his fingers hovering over the next page.

A hesitation. A choice.

Then Lumien shifted. His gaze swept over the group, lingering on the paler faces, the clenched jaws, the trembling hands. The weight of the diary was no longer just on Chris—it was on all of them.

"That's enough," Lumien said.

Chris nodded slightly, prepared to close the book.

But Elijah spoke.

"Go on."

His voice was even. Unshaken. The others turned to him, expecting doubt, resistance—anything. But there was nothing. Just a quiet resolve.

Chris hesitated. Then, exhaling slowly, he turned the page.