Maya had barely slept in days. Every creak of the house, every shadow in the corners of her vision, made her flinch. The strangers were relentless, and the thought of them lurking outside kept her on edge.

As she moved through the abandoned cabin she’d taken refuge in, her foot caught on something sticking out from beneath a floorboard. Kneeling, she pried it loose—and her eyes widened.

A leather-bound journal, worn and weathered.

Her fingers trembled as she opened it. The pages were filled with scrawled handwriting, frantic at times, meticulous at others. And then she recognized it—your handwriting.

A chill ran down her spine.

She flipped through the pages, reading quickly: notes on the strangers’ patterns, their methods, their weaknesses… and cryptic warnings about traps and misdirections. Some pages ended abruptly, ink smudged, as if you had been interrupted.

“Could this… really help?” Maya whispered to herself, heart hammering.

She read on, noticing detailed plans—things that could give her the edge she needed. How to fortify the cabin, signals to mislead the strangers, and methods to defend herself if they breached the perimeter.

But then she paused. One page was different. The handwriting was jagged, almost manic, and the words twisted:

“Trust no one. Every path you take is a choice—but some lead only to them. They watch everything. One wrong move and it’s over. Forever.”

Maya’s pulse quickened. The journal wasn’t just a guide—it was a warning. Following it blindly could save her… or lead her straight into the strangers’ trap.

She looked around the dim cabin, imagination running wild. Every shadow could be hiding them. Every sound outside the walls could be the strangers closing in.

Her instincts screamed at her to burn the journal, throw it away, ignore it entirely. But another part of her—practical, desperate—knew she couldn’t survive without it.

Taking a deep breath, she made a decision. She would use the journal—but carefully. Every step would be measured, every instruction cross-checked with her own judgment. She would follow the pages like a map through a minefield, knowing that one wrong step could be her last.

The strangers might have forced her into hiding, but now she had a weapon they hadn’t anticipated: your knowledge, your mistakes, and your warnings.

Maya closed the journal and pressed it to her chest. Her eyes hardened.

“This time,” she whispered, “I’ll finish what you started—or I’ll make sure they pay for trying.”