Today, I needed to take a step back. After the battle with those hounds, my body is still aching, and the wound on my arm hasn't fully healed. I can feel it throbbing whenever I move. If I push myself too hard, I won't last much longer out here. I need to recover.

I spent the morning setting a few rabbit traps in a nearby field. It's simple work, but efficient. I've seen the little creatures darting about, and if I can catch enough of them, it'll keep me going without risking another mistake like that dreadful Monster Meat. I can't afford another blow to my health—or my sanity. The traps should do their job by tomorrow. At least that's something I can count on. Or I hope to count on...

With the traps set and little else to do, I've had some time to think. This journal... it's been useful to help me keep track of what's happening, but I haven't written anything about myself. What if I... don't survive this? If someone were to find this journal, they'd know nothing of the man behind it.

So, let me remedy that.

My name is Wilson P. Higgsbury. I am, or rather was, a scientist—a Gentleman Scientist, as I like to call myself. Born in London, raised by a nanny whom I loved and mourned after her death, and exiled from my own family because they found my passion for science disgraceful. Nobility has no patience for curiosity, it seems. No matter. I've made my own way in life since then. I left for the United States to escape their suffocating judgment. I suppose I wanted a fresh start, a place where I could pursue my experiments without interference or expectations. The university there wasn't much better. They tried to confine me to their narrow definitions of science, and when an unfortunate accident involving the chemistry lab's destruction occurred, they saw fit to exile me yet again—with a hefty bill, of course.

Well... I thought what else can i write. Let me think... Oh. I never quite fit into formal society. I've always hated formal parties, and not just for the tedious small talk. There's something about those gatherings—the way people act, the layers of pretense—that feels like a different world entirely. A world where nothing is genuine. They talk of meaningless things, while hiding their real thoughts behind masks of civility. I've never had the patience for it. Science deals in facts, not facades! The idea of standing around, pretending to "care about" some socialite's latest scandal or discussing pointless gossip, has always repelled me. Give me a puzzle to solve, something real to explore, and I'm alive! But in those gatherings, I might as well be a ghost.

And you know what? The university was no different. You'd think it would be a haven for knowledge, a place where minds were free to think and discover. But it wasn't. It was just another cage—one filled with narrow-minded academics who couldn't see beyond their own limited fields of study. They had no vision, no imagination. And worse, they were petty, always jostling for favor and recognition. That environment suffocated me. I craved independence, and the endless restrictions only fueled my need to break free. I suppose blowing up half the chemistry lab in one of my more... experimental moments didn't help. Still, it was just an accident. No need for them to send me such an outrageous bill.

I hate being forced into their rules, their expectations, and those places—their parties and institutions—were prisons to me. It's strange, though. Here I am, in a world with no rules, no restrictions, and yet I find myself yearning for something to hold on to. Even chaos can feel like a trap.

After thinking about my past I realized I've always been stubborn, perhaps to my detriment. I'm not one to admit mistakes easily, and I rarely consider myself wrong, even when evidence might suggest otherwise. It's both a strength and a weakness, I suppose. But in a world like this, stubbornness might be the only thing keeping me alive. And I was never much for physical exertion. I have vivid memories of loathing gym classes in my youth, my disdain for athletics forming early and never fading. Now, it seems, life has a cruel sense of irony. Here I am, reduced to swinging an axe and setting traps like a common laborer. My mind is where my strength lies, but I've had to adapt—fast.

I suppose this journal might be my only legacy if I don't make it out of this place. It's strange to think that this might be all that remains of Wilson P. Higgsbury: some scribbled thoughts in a tattered notebook, left behind in an unfriendly wilderness. But I'm not giving up. Not yet. Tomorrow, I'll check the traps and resume my work, but for today, I rest. My health must come first, no matter how much it frustrates me to sit idle. That's why it seems I wrote more than usual. The air is growing colder. I can feel the chill creeping into my bones, though the sun is still out. Something is coming, something worse than I've faced so far. I need to be prepared.

I will survive. I have to. And I can. Hopefuly.