Five years,
It feels like a lifetime ago when the world was still a place of normality, when we could wake up to the hum of cars on the street, the chatter of people in cafés, and the feeling of safety—something we took for granted.
I remember the first signs of the outbreak, like a nightmare unfolding in slow motion. News reports, social media posts, and frantic rumors. But nobody thought it would reach us, not like this.
Now, the world is a shattered shell of what it once was. Cities lie in ruins, overgrown with vines and decay. The old world—its infrastructure, its comforts, its rules—are long gone. The streets are empty. Most of the humanity is either dead or… something else.
And those of us still breathing? We’re just surviving. We’ve learned to adapt, to move quietly, to trust no one. The dead walk the earth, but it’s the living I fear more now.
Every day feels like a test of endurance. We've become scavengers, taking what we can, and sometimes, fighting for it. The zombies—"biters," we call them now—are everywhere, but they’re not the real danger anymore.
It's the other survivors. The groups, the factions, the people who will kill without hesitation for food, water, or just power.
I used to be a lot more hopeful, but now… now, it’s just a matter of how long we can keep going. How long we can keep fighting. For what, though? A future? A reason? I don’t know anymore.
But what I do know is this: I'm still alive. And as long as I’m breathing, I’ll keep moving forward.
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