The hamlet—no, the village—hummed with a muffled activity. Monsters came and went, some carrying wood, others hammering stones, still others dragging reeking carcasses they piled up like offerings. Together they formed a grotesque imitation of human daily life. Regulated, mechanical gestures, as if an invisible hand dictated their cadence.
And him, among them.
A man.
A survivor.
He mimicked their movements, adjusted his steps to the horde's rhythm, lowered his eyes when needed, lifted burdens he had learned to make look plausible, without betraying his humanity too much. Often, he held his breath, fearing that a conscious, too-living breath might set him apart.
