[ENTRY A1: THE NIGHT OF THE FALL — A GARRISON SOLDIER'S WITNESS]
Date: Day of Wall Maria's Fall — Evening
I'm writing this by lamplight in a supply closet. Can't sleep. Can't stop seeing it.
When the Colossal Titan appeared, I was stationed on Wall Maria. Guard duty. Boring shift. I was complaining to my partner about the cold.
Then the steam hit.
Hot. Suffocating. Came out of nowhere—rolled over the wall like fog, except fog doesn't burn your lungs. We couldn't see. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't hear anything except this enormous crack—like the world breaking in half.
When the steam cleared, the wall was gone.
Not broken. Gone. A massive hole, edges still smoking, and through it—
The face.
The Colossal Titan had no skin. Just muscle. Just teeth. It stared at us—not through us, at us—and then it turned and walked away. Didn't attack. Didn't care about us at all. Just smashed the gate and left.
My partner started screaming. I couldn't move.
Then the smaller Titans poured through.
I survived because I fell off the wall. Broke my leg. Lay in the rubble while people died around me. A Scout found me hours later, pulled me out, dumped me with the other survivors.
They're calling it a tragedy. A disaster. An act of God.
It wasn't God. It was a face. Looking at us. Knowing exactly what it was doing.