AFKmastershot had spent years perfecting this routine.

Chair reclined. Headset snug. Controller in hand.

His room pulsed with neon light, the red-blue glow of his RGB setup casting shifting shadows across the walls. The faint hum of his PC filled the space, blending with the rhythmic clack of his fingers against the controller.

It was comforting. Familiar. His world.

A world where he was in control.

“Alright, chat,” he muttered, adjusting his headset mic. “We’re about to run it up. Ranked matches only tonight, no L’s.”

Messages flooded in—fast, relentless.

“You better not choke this time, bro!”

“Ain’t no way you dropping another nuke!”

“Watch AFK rage-quit in T-minus five minutes.”

He smirked, cracking his knuckles. “Nah, chat. Tonight, we’re going flawless.”

The screen flickered as he hovered over the Start button. A simple action. Something he’d done thousands of times before.

Click.

And then—

His monitor glitched.

Colors bled together in unnatural waves, like oil on water. The image on screen twisted, contorting into jagged lines of raw static.

A sharp, high-pitched hum filled his ears. His RGB lights pulsed erratically, then flickered out entirely.

“Yo—what the hell?” His hands jerked back from the controller as if it had burned him.

The air grew heavy. Thick. Electric.

Then, a sudden, gut-wrenching pull yanked at his chest. Not like a jump scare. Not like a VR trick.

This was real.

His heart slammed against his ribs. The force sucked the breath from his lungs. He tried to move, tried to stand—but his body wouldn’t respond.

The walls of his room distorted, warping into streaks of white light.

His mind screamed for logic, for something to explain the impossible.

“Chat, you seeing this?!” He reached for his keyboard, fingers grasping at empty air. His entire setup—his monitors, his desk, his chair—everything was dissolving.

His chest tightened.

Panic.

This wasn’t a game. This wasn’t a joke.

His screen—his lifeline—was the last thing to go, flickering wildly before freezing on a single, eerie message.

WELCOME, PLAYER ONE.

Then, the world shattered.

He was falling.

Or at least, it felt like falling—an endless, weightless drop through a void of swirling pixels and fractured light.

His body twisted, limbs flailing, but there was nothing to grab onto. No ground. No walls. No sky.

The abyss stretched infinitely in every direction, an ocean of shifting colors and static noise.

“HELLO?!” His voice echoed, swallowed instantly by the void.

No answer.

The pressure in his chest built, his breath coming fast and shallow. He clenched his fists, fighting the rising fear gnawing at the edges of his mind.

What the hell was happening to him?

Then—

A voice.

Cold. Mechanical.

“CALIBRATING.”

The word slithered through the void, vibrating in his skull.

AFK’s body jerked violently, an unseen force seizing him midair. The freefall stopped, his limbs locking into place as if unseen strings were pulling him in every direction.

A strange, digital energy crawled up his arms, his legs—through his veins.

“SYSTEM BOOTING.”

Pain exploded behind his eyes.

His mind filled with static, his vision flooded with blinding light.

He tried to scream, but no sound came out.

A thousand images flashed through his head, too fast to process. War-torn cities. Burning deserts. Neon skylines. Towering mountains. A kaleidoscope of worlds, all flickering in and out of existence.

He felt them.

Like they were real.

Like he was being pulled into them.

The voice returned, closer now, whispering directly into his mind.

“Welcome, Player One. Game loading…”

AFK barely had time to think—

Before the void collapsed.

He landed hard.

His back slammed against solid ground, the force rattling through his bones.

His breath hitched, chest burning from the impact.

He wasn’t weightless anymore. He wasn’t falling.

He was somewhere.

The first thing he noticed was the smell.

Gunpowder. Smoke. Burning metal.

His ears rang with distant explosions, the rhythmic thunder of gunfire echoing through the air.

His vision blurred, his mind still reeling from the transition.

But then—

He heard the voice.

“Ghost, you good?!”

His eyes snapped open.

A soldier in full tactical gear crouched beside him, an M4 rifle held steady in gloved hands. The soldier’s face was obscured behind a familiar skull-patterned mask.

AFK’s stomach dropped.

“No way. No way this is real.”

Then—

A bullet whizzed past his head, slamming into the concrete wall behind him.

Adrenaline flooded his system. His body moved before his mind caught up—rolling to cover, pressing his back against the rubble.

More gunfire.

A voice crackled through his earpiece.

“Bravo Team, enemy combatants closing in! Get to the rooftop—now!”

This was happening.

His heart pounded. His hands tightened around the grip of a gun.

He looked down.

An M4. Fully loaded. Tactical attachments.

His breath caught in his throat.

“I’m in Call of Duty.”

His hands trembled, but his instincts took over.

“Take the shot!” Ghost barked.

AFK had no time to think.

His body reacted.

He moved, shouldering the rifle, sighting down the barrel.

Enemies rushed in, rifles raised.

AFK hesitated for a split second—then squeezed the trigger.

The first enemy dropped.

The next rushed forward—AFK adjusted, fired—another hit.

His mind screamed, but his body was calm.

The world slowed.

Everything felt sharp, instinctual—

Like he had done this before.

Like he belonged here.

Then—

The battlefield glitched.

Reality flickered.

A voice—cold, mechanical—whispered through the static.

“Level Up.”

Then—

The world collapsed into white.

Pain.

That was the first thing AFK felt.

His entire body ached like he’d just been hit by a truck. His lungs burned, his chest heaving with short, panicked breaths. His fingers dug into the rough concrete beneath him, his mind struggling to process what had just happened.

One moment, he’d been in his room. Streaming. Safe.

Now—this.

Gunfire.

Explosions.

Screams.

A battlefield.

AFK’s heart slammed against his ribs. His brain screamed that this wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. But every sensation—the scent of gunpowder and burning metal, the weight of the tactical vest now strapped to his chest, the rough texture of dirt and rubble beneath his hands—said otherwise.

He wasn’t in his chair anymore. He wasn’t home.

He was in a warzone.

“Ghost, you good?!”

AFK snapped his head to the side, his breath catching in his throat.

A soldier knelt beside him, clad in full tactical gear, gripping an M4 assault rifle. His face was concealed by a familiar skull-patterned mask.

Ghost.

AFK’s stomach dropped.

“No way.”

This was Call of Duty.

But that was impossible.

His mind raced, trying to rationalize. This had to be a dream. A glitch in his stream setup. Maybe he’d passed out mid-game, and his brain was processing some weird hallucination.

“Bravo Team, enemy combatants closing in! Get to the rooftop—now!”

The voice crackled in his ear, cutting through his confusion like a knife.

Then—

A bullet tore through the air inches from his face.

AFK dove to cover, instinct kicking in before his mind caught up. His back slammed against a crumbling concrete barrier, heart pounding in his ears.

The gunfire was relentless. The deep, bone-rattling BOOM of an explosion lit up the sky behind him, sending shockwaves through the ground.

This was too real.

And worse—

He was holding a gun.

AFK’s breath came in sharp gasps as he looked down. His hands were wrapped around the grip of an M4A1, fully kitted with a red-dot sight, tactical foregrip, and extended magazine.

It was heavy. Solid.

It felt real.

He swallowed hard, his fingers trembling over the trigger.

“Take the shot!” Ghost barked, his own rifle already locked on the approaching hostiles.

AFK hesitated.

His heart slammed against his chest.

These weren’t pixels. This wasn’t some lobby full of enemy NPCs. These were people. Soldiers. Human beings.

“Move, damn it!” Ghost snapped.

More bullets rained down. The squad was pinned. If he didn’t fire—they would die.

AFK’s breath hitched.

His mind screamed no, but his body moved on instinct.

He lined up his sights.

Squeezed the trigger.

The rifle kicked against his shoulder.

The first enemy soldier crumpled.

Blood splattered against the concrete.

AFK’s breath caught in his throat. His stomach twisted.

He had just killed someone.

But there was no time to process it.

Another soldier rushed forward. AFK’s hands acted before he could think—he adjusted his aim, fired again.

Another hit.

Kill confirmed.

His mind reeled, but his body—his reflexes—were calm. His hands were steady. His heart still raced, but the part of him that had spent years perfecting his aim in FPS games took over.

The battlefield around him blurred into focus.

The next enemy flanked left. AFK adjusted, fired—headshot.

He wasn’t just reacting anymore. He was anticipating. His awareness stretched beyond normal human limits.

This wasn’t just skill.

Something was changing inside him.

The enemy squad fell one by one. AFK’s movements became faster, sharper, cleaner. Every shot landed perfectly.

He felt like he had been training for this his entire life.

Then—

The world glitched.

A sharp flicker of light crackled through the battlefield. For a second, the entire environment wavered, like a corrupted screen. The sky warped. The buildings distorted.

Ghost didn’t seem to notice. Neither did the rest of the squad.

But AFK felt it.

A deep, underlying presence.

Like something—someone—was watching.

Then—

A whisper.

Cold. Mechanical.

“Level Up.”

AFK’s breath caught in his throat.

The weight of his rifle shifted in his hands. He felt stronger. More aware.

Like something inside him had just unlocked.

Then—

The battlefield collapsed into static.

AFK’s entire body was yanked backward, weightless. The world melted into a blur of shifting colors and digital noise.

He barely had time to scream before—

Blackness.

The first thing AFK felt was pain.

His body ached, his head throbbed, and his throat was dry as sandpaper. It was like he had been knocked out cold and left in the sun for hours.

He groaned, pushing himself up on his elbows. The dirt beneath his fingers felt real. Too real. The air was thick with the scent of horses, dust, and something that smelled like stale tobacco.

AFK’s mind reeled, trying to piece together the fragments of what had just happened.

He had been in Call of Duty. He had been fighting. And then… the glitch.

And now—

His vision cleared, and his stomach dropped.

He wasn’t in a modern city. No skyscrapers. No highways.

Instead, wooden saloons lined a dusty street, wagons rattled past, and a blacksmith hammered away in the distance.

Horses whinnied. A tumbleweed rolled lazily by.

His chest tightened.

He knew this place.

He had spent hours here.

This was Red Dead Redemption 2.

And he was trapped inside it.

His heart pounded as he looked down at himself.

Gone were his hoodie and joggers.

Now, he wore a leather vest, a faded shirt, worn-out boots, and a gun belt.

And at his hip—

A Colt Peacemaker revolver.

His hands trembled as he slowly reached down, wrapping his fingers around the grip. The wood was smooth, the steel cold.

This wasn’t just a prop.

This was a real weapon.

His breath hitched.

“This can’t be real. It can’t be.”

And then—

A low whistle.

AFK turned just in time to see them.

Four outlaws.

Scarred. Armed. Moving toward him with slow, predatory steps.

The leader, a tall man with a jagged scar down his cheek, smirked.

“Boy, you must be new ‘round here.”

His voice was low, amused.

“You’re wearin’ that iron, but I don’t reckon you know how to use it.”

AFK’s stomach twisted.

The town went silent.

People stepped onto porches, watching.

AFK knew exactly what was happening.

This was a duel.

And if he didn’t move first—

He would die.

The outlaw’s fingers twitched toward his gun.

AFK reacted.

His revolver cleared leather in an instant.

He fired.

A single gunshot shattered the stillness.

The outlaw’s body jerked violently.

His revolver never left its holster.

For a moment, he just stood there.

Then—

He collapsed.

Face-first into the dirt.

AFK’s breath came in sharp, ragged gasps.

His hands shook violently.

He had just killed a man.

No respawn. No checkpoint reload.

No undoing it.

The remaining outlaws drew their weapons.

AFK barely had time to react before a gunshot ripped through the air—

But it wasn’t aimed at him.

A shadow loomed behind him.

A rifle cocked.

And Arthur Morgan fired.

AFK didn’t remember much after that.

He had stumbled after Arthur, still in shock, barely processing what had happened. His hands were bloody, shaking, numb.

Arthur took him to a cabin in the woods, somewhere deep in the heart of the frontier.

For the first time in hours, AFK let go.

His breath came in ragged bursts as he sat on the cabin floor, gripping his head between his hands. His chest tightened.

And then—he broke.

Tears burned his eyes.

He wasn’t a killer. He wasn’t a gunslinger.

He was just a guy who played video games.

Arthur sat across from him, watching calmly.

After a long silence, Arthur finally spoke.

“You done?”

AFK wiped his face, anger flaring.

“You don’t get it, man. I just— I just killed someone. I shouldn’t be here. I don’t know how the hell I even got here!”

Arthur leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Boy, you ever seen a man get mauled by a bear?”

AFK blinked.

“What?”

Arthur took out a cigar, lighting it with a slow, practiced motion.

“Ain’t nothin’ fair in this world,” Arthur muttered. “You play by the rules, you die by ‘em. And if you ain’t strong enough to survive, this world eats you alive.”

AFK’s jaw clenched.

“You don’t understand. I’m not from here. I was just— I was playing a game, and then—”

Arthur exhaled a cloud of smoke.

“Doesn’t matter where you came from.” His eyes locked onto AFK’s. “You’re here now. And you better learn fast.”Arthur didn’t give AFK time to mope.

The next morning, he handed AFK a rifle.

“Let’s see what you’re made of.”

They rode into the forest.

It was nothing like the game.

The air smelled of pine and damp earth. Birds fluttered through the branches. Everything felt alive.

Arthur taught him how to track.

How to move without making noise.

How to aim. Breathe. Shoot.

But when the moment finally came—

When a deer stood perfectly still in a clearing, its ears twitching, its brown eyes calm—

AFK froze.

His hands shook.

He couldn’t pull the trigger.

Arthur sighed.

“Close your eyes.”

AFK hesitated, then did.

“Take a deep breath. Feel the wind. Listen to the leaves.”

AFK swallowed hard.

He felt it.

He breathed.

And when he opened his eyes, he fired.

The deer dropped instantly.

A wave of emotions hit him.

Arthur clapped him on the back.

“Now you’re learnin’.”

That night, AFK couldn’t sleep.

The memory of the duel, the deer, the blood— it wouldn’t leave him.

He sat outside the cabin, staring at his hands.

Arthur joined him, sitting on the porch, lighting another cigar.

“You’re scared,” Arthur said simply.

AFK scoffed. “No shit.”

Arthur exhaled smoke.

“Good,” he muttered. “Means you still got somethin’ worth fightin’ for.”

AFK didn’t know how to respond to that.

For the first time since waking up here—

He wondered if he’d ever get home.

And for the first time—

He wasn’t sure if he even wanted to.

The fire crackled softly, casting flickering shadows across the wooden walls of the small cabin.

AFK sat on the porch, his arms resting on his knees, staring out into the endless stretch of wilderness that surrounded them. The cool night air carried the scent of pine, damp earth, and burning wood.

He should have felt calm.

But his mind was a storm.

The duel.

The deer.

The blood on his hands.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake the weight of it.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the outlaw’s body hitting the dirt. The way his blood had pooled in the dust, turning it into dark, muddy streaks.

Arthur’s voice cut through the quiet.

“You keep sittin’ out here starin’ at nothin’, you’re gonna start seein’ ghosts.”

AFK let out a slow breath. “Maybe I already do.”

Arthur sat down next to him, resting his elbows on his knees, silent for a long moment.

“First kill’s always the hardest,” he finally said. “After that, either you learn to live with it, or it eats you alive.”

AFK swallowed hard. “And what if I don’t want to get used to it?”

Arthur looked at him. His blue eyes were sharp, but there was something tired behind them, something worn and weary.

“You don’t got much of a choice,” he said simply.

AFK’s jaw clenched. “That’s not true. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t choose to be here.”

Arthur took a slow drag from his cigarette, exhaling the smoke into the cold night air.

“Maybe not,” he admitted. “But here you are. Question is, what’re you gonna do about it?”

AFK didn’t have an answer.

Not yet.

The days passed slowly.

Arthur put him to work. No more hiding, no more sulking.

If AFK was going to survive in this world, he needed to learn how to be a part of it.

He worked the stables, learning how to care for horses—how to brush them down, how to read their moods, how to move without spooking them.

He helped hunt for food, tracking rabbits, deer, and even a wild boar through the forests. His hands shook less now when he pulled the trigger, but every kill still left a pit in his stomach.

He practiced shooting. A lot.

Arthur made him fire until his hands were sore, his arms ached, and the smell of gunpowder was burned into his skin.

He rode. At first, terribly.

More than once, he ended up face-first in the dirt as his horse bucked him off. Arthur laughed every time, calling him “the worst damn rider in the West.”

But AFK learned. Slowly, surely, painfully.

And eventually, he got good.

Better than good.

He adapted.

But no matter how many days passed—he never stopped thinking about home.

Was his stream still running?

Was anyone looking for him?

Was this forever?

He didn’t have answers.

And that terrified him.

It happened one evening.

AFK had just finished chopping wood when he heard the horses.

Distant at first. A faint rumble of hooves.

Then closer.

Too close.

Arthur emerged from the cabin, rifle in hand.

“That ain’t good,” he muttered.

AFK’s pulse spiked. “Who is it?”

Arthur didn’t answer. He just stepped forward, eyes sharp, watching as a group of riders crested the hill.

Five of them.

And even before they got close enough to see their badges, AFK knew.

Pinkertons.

The law.

They pulled their horses to a stop at the edge of the clearing. Their leader, a tall, lean man in a crisp black coat, tipped his hat.

“Arthur Morgan,” he drawled. “Been a while.”

Arthur didn’t move.

“What do you want, Milton?”

The man—Milton—smiled, but it was cold, empty.

“Just a friendly conversation,” he said. “See, we’ve been hearin’ about a new gunslinger in these parts. Someone who doesn’t quite… belong.”

His eyes landed on AFK.

AFK’s stomach dropped.

Milton’s smile widened.

“Now, you wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?

Arthur didn’t wait.

He grabbed AFK by the collar and yanked him toward the horses.

“RUN.”

AFK didn’t need to be told twice.

They vaulted into their saddles just as gunfire erupted.

Bullets tore through the trees.

AFK’s horse whinnied, hooves thundering against the dirt as they tore through the woods.

Branches whipped at his face. His fingers clenched the reins so tight his knuckles turned white.

“FASTER!” Arthur barked.

AFK leaned forward, kicking his horse into a full gallop.

Behind them, the Pinkertons pursued relentlessly.

AFK’s heart slammed against his ribs.

The trees blurred past. His breath came in short, ragged gasps.

“Take ‘em out!” Arthur shouted.

AFK turned, his revolver shaking in his grip.

He had never fired from horseback before.

But there was no time to hesitate.

He aimed.

Fired.

Missed.

A bullet whizzed past his ear.

His pulse spiked.

He focused.

His hands steadied.

He aimed again.

Fired.

The shot hit.

A Pinkerton toppled from his horse, hitting the ground hard.

The others kept coming.

Arthur fired again and again, dropping another.

But they were still outnumbered.

And then—

A bullet slammed into AFK’s shoulder.

Pain exploded through him.

His vision blurred. His fingers went numb.

He slipped.

Fell.

The ground rushed up to meet him.

And everything went black.

When AFK woke, his wrists were bound.

His head throbbed. His shoulder burned.

And standing over him—

Was Milton.

“Welcome to the real West, son,” he said, smiling. “You and I are gonna have a nice, long chat.”

AFK’s heart pounded.

He was trapped.

And Arthur was nowhere in sight.

Pain.

That was the first thing AFK felt when he woke up.

A deep, searing ache in his shoulder, pulsing with every beat of his heart. His wrists burned from the rough rope that bound them together, the fibers digging into his skin.

He blinked.

The world tilted.

His head throbbed, and for a second, everything was blurry.

Then it all came into focus.

He was in a dark tent, the air thick with the scent of sweat, gunpowder, and damp earth. His arms were tied behind his back, his legs bound at the ankles.

And standing in front of him—

Agent Milton.

AFK’s stomach twisted.

The man smirked.

“Well, look who’s finally awake.”

AFK gritted his teeth. “Go to hell.”

Milton laughed. “Son, I’ve been livin’ in hell for years.”

He crouched down, resting his forearms on his knees. His cold, calculating eyes studied AFK like a hunter watching a wounded animal.

“You got a real bad habit of showin’ up where you don’t belong,” Milton continued. “Thing is, we been hearin’ stories about you. A man who came outta nowhere. Shoots like a veteran. Fights like a savage. But don’t know a damn thing about the world around him.”

He tilted his head.

“That’s mighty peculiar, don’t you think?”

AFK’s pulse spiked.

They knew.

They didn’t know everything, but they knew something was off.

Milton’s smirk widened.

“Now, I got a feelin’ you got answers. And you’re gonna tell me.”

AFK met his gaze, his jaw tightening.

“Or what?”

Milton’s smile vanished.

He stood up, motioning to one of his men.

A fist slammed into AFK’s stomach.

The breath rushed from his lungs. His body lurched forward, but the ropes held him in place.

Milton leaned in, his voice cold.

“You’re gonna tell me, son,” he said. “Because the alternative? You ain’t gonna like it.

Hours passed.

AFK’s wrists were raw. His body ached.

But he didn’t talk.

Wouldn’t talk.

Couldn’t.

Because how the hell was he supposed to explain this?

He wasn’t from here. He wasn’t some outlaw. He was a guy who played video games.

How do you explain that to people who don’t even know what a damn lightbulb is?

Milton had left him alone for now.

But AFK knew.

They weren’t done with him.

His head drooped forward, exhaustion pulling at his muscles. His shoulder still throbbed where the bullet had grazed him, the pain a dull, constant burn.

Then—

A sound.

A soft whistle.

AFK’s head snapped up.

Outside, the guards were talking, laughing.

Then, a sharp gunshot.

The laughter cut off instantly.

AFK’s breath caught in his throat.

More gunfire.

Then—

Silence.

The flap of the tent ripped open.

Arthur Morgan stood in the entrance, rifle smoking, a knife in his other hand.

“You just gonna sit there all night or you gonna let me untie you?”

AFK exhaled a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding.

“About damn time.”

Arthur snorted, crouching down and cutting through the ropes.

“Couldn’t let you have all the fun, now could I?”

AFK rubbed his wrists, grimacing at the raw skin.

Arthur tossed him a gun.

“Come on, kid. Let’s get you the hell outta here.”

They burst out of the tent, guns blazing.

The Pinkertons were already scrambling, their camp thrown into chaos.

Arthur fired first, his rifle taking down the nearest lawman.

AFK didn’t hesitate.

His revolver felt like an extension of his hand now.

He moved without thinking, ducking behind crates, firing off precise shots.

His training was paying off.

Every movement was faster, sharper, more controlled.

One Pinkerton rushed him with a knife.

AFK sidestepped, grabbed the man’s arm, twisted—

A sickening crack.

The man crumpled.

AFK didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.

This was it.

This was survival.

They fought their way to the horses, Arthur covering him as AFK mounted up.

“Ride, kid!”

They spurred their horses forward, galloping into the night.

Bullets whizzed past. Trees blurred by.

The Pinkertons gave chase, but they were too far behind.

By the time the sun started to rise, AFK and Arthur were miles away.

They set up camp in the hills, far from the law.

AFK sat by the fire, staring into the flames, his mind a mess.

Arthur studied him.

“You ain’t the same man who walked into Valentine a few weeks ago,” he said.

AFK exhaled a shaky breath.

“I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

Arthur smirked.

“Good. That means you’re gettin’ somewhere.”

AFK chuckled, shaking his head.

Then—

The world shimmered.

AFK’s heart skipped a beat.

The fire flickered, the edges of reality warping like a corrupted screen.

Arthur didn’t react.

The world around him was breaking apart, pixelating.

The glitch was happening again.

“Arthur,” AFK said, his voice unsteady.

Arthur looked at him, his expression calm.

Like he already knew.

“You got a long road ahead of you, kid,” Arthur murmured. “Don’t lose yourself in it.”

AFK reached out—

But the world collapsed into static.

Everything went black.

AFK hit the ground hard.

The air was thick.

Damp.

The smell of smoke, sweat, and something rotten filled his lungs.

A low, guttural growl echoed in the distance.

He pushed himself up, blinking.

The sky was dark, storm clouds rolling overhead.

The buildings were ruined, broken down.

And then—

A screech.

AFK’s blood ran cold.

Shambling toward him—

A zombie.

Not just any zombie.

A Volatile.

His stomach twisted.

He knew this place.

Dying Light.

And night was falling.