Chapter 3: Survive The Night

Pain was becoming a familiar sensation.

AFK hit the ground hard, his body rolling across the cracked pavement as his lungs fought for air.

The world around him was a nightmare.

Thick clouds loomed overhead, blotting out the moonlight. The air reeked of decay, the scent so strong it made his stomach churn. Buildings stood in ruins—broken, crumbling, abandoned. The sound of distant sirens and flickering streetlights cast an eerie glow across the empty streets.

And then—

A screech.

Not human. Something else.

AFK’s entire body tensed.

Slowly, he turned.

A figure stood at the end of the alley, its body twitching unnaturally. Its skin was pale, stretched over sharp bones, its fingers elongated into claws.

A Volatile.

His stomach twisted.

“No. No, no, no, no. Not here. Not Dying Light.”

The creature sniffed the air.

Then, its head snapped toward him.

AFK’s breath caught in his throat.

For a moment, the world was silent.

Then—

It charged.

AFK spun and ran.

He didn’t think. Didn’t plan. He just moved.

His boots slammed against the pavement, his heart racing as fast as his legs.

Behind him—the Volatile let out a bloodcurdling screech.

More screeches answered.

His blood ran cold.

“There’s more?”

The streets were a maze of broken cars and collapsed buildings. He had no idea where to go. No idea how to survive here.

Then—

Something clicked.

Run faster. Move smarter. Use your surroundings.

It wasn’t his voice.

It was instinct.

Red Dead had taught him how to move in open terrain. Call of Duty had honed his reflexes.

But this—this was different.

His feet pushed harder, his strides becoming longer, smoother. His body moved with purpose.

He hit a fallen dumpster—

And without thinking—he jumped.

His foot landed perfectly against the edge, his body launching upward.

He grabbed the edge of a rooftop, fingers tightening on the concrete.

And then—

He pulled himself up.

Effortless.

He barely had time to process it.

“I just—parkoured?!”

Then, a hand clawed at the ledge beneath him.

The Volatile had followed.

AFK’s instincts screamed.

He rolled backward, reaching for a weapon.

His hand landed on his hip.

Nothing.

His revolver was gone.

He had no gun. No knife.

Just his fists.

And the thing climbing toward him.

The Volatile hauled itself onto the rooftop.

AFK backpedaled, breathing hard.

It was even worse up close.

Its skin was torn, pulsing with infection. Its eyes were pitch black, hollow, soulless.

It lunged.

AFK dodged.

Barely.

The creature’s claws raked across his arm, tearing into his shirt.

Pain flared, but he didn’t have time to react.

It came at him again.

He did the only thing he could.

He punched it.

Hard.

His fist slammed into its jaw, the impact sending a shockwave up his arm.

And to his absolute shock—

The Volatile stumbled back.

“What—?”

Another memory hit him.

The way he had fought back in Red Dead. His brawls in saloons, his hand-to-hand combat in bar fights.

He wasn’t just learning how to survive.

He was unlocking abilities.

The creature recovered.

It lunged again.

AFK’s body moved faster than his mind.

He ducked, his foot sweeping out.

The Volatile tripped, tumbling toward the rooftop edge.

AFK didn’t hesitate.

He grabbed a loose metal pipe from the ground—

And swung.

The impact cracked through the air.

The creature let out a garbled screech—

Then, it toppled over the edge.

Falling.

Disappearing into the darkness below.

AFK stood there, his chest heaving.

His hands trembling.

“I just killed that thing.”

With his bare hands.

He wasn’t just surviving these worlds.

He was adapting to them.

And that terrified him.

A light flickered in the distance.

Then, a voice—gruff, urgent.

“Hey! You wanna live, get inside! Now!”

AFK turned.

A figure waved from a rooftop across the street.

A group of survivors.

He had no choice.

Taking a deep breath, he sprinted toward the edge—

And jumped.

His body moved effortlessly, clearing the gap like he had been doing it for years.

He landed smoothly, rolling into a crouch.

The survivor stared at him, eyes wide.

“Jesus, man. Where the hell did you learn to move like that?”

AFK didn’t have an answer.

Because the truth was—

He didn’t know.

The survivors brought him inside, locking the doors behind them.

The hideout was small—old beds, supplies stacked against the walls, flickering lanterns.

AFK leaned against the wall, exhaling sharply.

“What’s your name?” one of the survivors asked.

AFK hesitated.

Then, he sighed.

“Call me AFK.”

They exchanged glances.

“We don’t trust newcomers,” one of them muttered.

“Yeah, well,” AFK said, “I don’t trust this world either.”

The leader, a man named Darren, studied him closely.

“You ain’t normal,” he said finally. “I’ve seen runners before, but you? You move different.”

AFK had been through warzones. He had survived the Wild West.

But nothing—nothing—had prepared him for this.

The moment he landed in this world, he had known something was wrong.

The air was thick with decay, carrying the scent of rotting flesh and burning rubber.

The streets were abandoned, littered with overturned cars and long-dead bodies. Buildings loomed half-collapsed, their windows shattered, their walls covered in claw marks and dried blood.

Then came the screech.

And the chase.

AFK’s instincts had saved him, leading him to a rooftop, where he had somehow parkoured his way to safety.

But that was just the beginning.

Now, sitting inside a cramped safehouse, surrounded by survivors who didn’t trust him, AFK realized something.

This wasn’t just about surviving.

This world was going to change him.

The hideout was nothing more than a makeshift shelter inside an old apartment complex.

Wooden planks boarded up the windows, lanterns flickered weakly, casting long shadows against the walls.

There were about six survivors, all of them dirty, tired, and armed.

They had dragged him inside just before the streets became crawling with infected.

Now, they all stood in a circle, watching him like a caged animal.

The leader—**a muscular, broad-shouldered man with a thick beard—**crossed his arms.

“You move too well to be a nobody,” he said. “Who the hell are you?”

AFK hesitated.

If he told them the truth—that he wasn’t even from this world—they’d think he was insane.

So, instead, he shrugged.

“Just a guy trying not to die.”

The leader didn’t look convinced.

“Yeah?” He eyed AFK’s clothes, his scuffed boots, the way he held himself. “You ain’t a Runner. You ain’t a Merc. You ain’t one of us.”

The others muttered among themselves.

A woman with a scarred cheek and sharp green eyes scoffed.

“We should toss him back out,” she said. “See if he really knows how to ‘not die.’”

AFK clenched his fists.

“Hey, lady, I just killed one of those things barehanded. You think I can’t handle myself?”

She raised an eyebrow.

“You took down a Volatile?”

AFK blinked.

Was that what they were called?

He had just called them zombies.

The group looked at each other.

The leader sighed.

“Alright. You stay. For now. But if you pull anything, we throw you to the dead.”

AFK exhaled.

“Great. Another group that doesn’t trust me. Just like Red Dead.”

At least Arthur had warmed up to him.

He wasn’t sure these people ever would.

They didn’t trust him.

Which meant they didn’t help him.

If AFK wanted to learn how to survive here, he had to figure it out himself.

He started by watching the others.

• How they moved. Fast, controlled, precise. They never wasted energy.

• How they fought. Not just brute force—they used the environment, kicking enemies off ledges, baiting them into traps.

• How they scavenged. They never stopped moving.

AFK learned quickly.

His Call of Duty reflexes made him fast in a fight.

His Red Dead brawling skills made him deadly up close.

But this world?

It demanded something different.

It demanded strategy.

Here.”

AFK turned as Darren—the group’s leader—tossed him something.

A rusty metal pipe.

His stomach turned.

“That’s it?”

Darren snorted.

“Unless you wanna fight barehanded again.”

AFK sighed, gripping the pipe. It was heavy, rough in his hands.

He had always played games with melee combat. But using a real weapon? Feeling the weight, the impact? That was different.

“Go on,” Darren said. “Prove you can use it.”

AFK hesitated.

Then—

The door creaked open.

A lone infected staggered inside.

It was a slow one.

But it was still horrifying.

Its skin was gray, flaking off in chunks. Its jaw hung at an unnatural angle.

It groaned, sniffing the air.

AFK’s grip tightened on the pipe.

“It’s just like in the game.”

But it wasn’t.

Because this time, it was real.

Darren nudged him.

“Well? What are you waiting for?”

AFK’s pulse pounded.

“I can do this.”

He stepped forward.

The infected snapped toward him.

It lurched, reaching for him—

AFK swung.

The pipe cracked against its skull.

The impact shot up his arms, jarring his bones.

The infected staggered.

AFK gritted his teeth.

Swung again.

The skull split open.

The body collapsed.

Dead.

For good.

AFK’s breathing was shaky. His hands trembled.

But he had done it.

Darren watched him for a long moment.

Then, he nodded.

“Not bad.”

AFK exhaled.

And for the first time, he felt like he belonged here.

Days passed.

Then weeks.

AFK trained with them.

He ran across rooftops. He crafted weapons from scraps. He learned to fight, to kill, to think ahead.

And little by little—

They started trusting him.

• Darren taught him leadership.

• Lena (the scarred woman) taught him how to move fast.

• Milo, a younger survivor, became his first real friend.

They laughed. They fought. They survived together.

For the first time since waking up in this nightmare…

AFK felt like he had a family again.

And then—

The glitch happened.

Everything vanished.

One moment, AFK had been at the table, laughing with Darren, Lena, and Milo.

The next—

Nothing.

No sound. No movement. No pain. No air.

Just blackness.

AFK blinked.

He could still feel his body, but it was as if he had been ripped away from existence.

Then—

A voice.

A cold, mechanical whisper, smooth yet unnatural.

“Congratulations, Player One.”

AFK’s heart stopped.

A flicker of light appeared before him—a massive, floating screen made of pure static, numbers, and flickering code.

A menu screen.

It hovered in the void, glitching in and out of focus. The text was distorted, yet somehow, he could read it perfectly.

The screen shifted, rearranging itself.

Lines of text poured down like rain, forming into words.

“You have leveled up.”

AFK swallowed hard.

“What… the hell is this?”

The screen glitched, distorting briefly.

Then, a new message appeared.

“You are evolving. Growing. Adapting.”

The voice wasn’t human. It wasn’t robotic. It was something… else.

“You are on the path… but you still do not understand why.”

AFK clenched his fists. “Then tell me.”

The screen glitched violently.

The voice was silent for a long moment.

Then, it spoke again.

“The answer is hidden in the spaces between.”

AFK scowled.

“A riddle?” He took a step forward. “Why don’t you just tell me what the hell is happening? Why am I being thrown into different game worlds? What do you want from me?”

The screen flickered faster.

“Because knowledge without trial is meaningless.”

AFK gritted his teeth. “You sound like a bad video game narrator.”

The screen shimmered, changing once more.

“You have earned a reward for advancing again. Select your next function.”

Suddenly, two options appeared in glowing text. OPTION 1: SUPERHUMAN STRENGTH

• Your body will surpass human limits.

• No weight too heavy, no enemy too strong.

• Your fists become weapons.

OPTION 2: THE HEALING GIFT

• You regenerate from any wound, no matter how severe.

• A drop of your blood can heal others.

• Special benefits remain undiscovered.

AFK’s breathing slowed.

He wasn’t just leveling up.

He was gaining powers.

This… wasn’t just about surviving anymore.

It was about becoming something else.

His mind raced.

• Superhuman strength meant he’d never be outmatched. He could fight even the strongest creatures.

• Healing meant he’d never die. Never lose people. Never watch someone bleed out in front of him.

His fingers hovered over the second option.

The memories hit him hard.

• The outlaw he killed in Red Dead.

• The people he had watched die in Call of Duty.

• Milo, Lena, and Darren—what if they got hurt? What if he could do something?

He made his choice.

OPTION 2 SELECTED.

The screen glitched violently, pulsing with energy.

Then—

A blinding flash.

And everything went dark.

AFK!”

His eyes snapped open.

Lena, Darren, and Milo were hovering over him.

His head pounded, his body tingling with a strange, new energy.

“What the hell happened?” Darren asked, his voice sharp with concern. “You just zoned out. Like you were somewhere else.”

AFK blinked rapidly.

He was back.

The safehouse. The survivors. The flickering lanterns. The scent of burnt food and sweat.

Not the glitch.

Not the void.

He touched his chest.

Something felt different.

Something inside him had changed.

But before he could answer—

The alarm sounded.

Milo’s eyes widened. “Shit. The Volatiles found us.”

Lena grabbed her knife. “We need to move. Now.”

Darren locked eyes with AFK. “You ready for this?”

AFK exhaled.

His hand clenched into a fist.

And for the first time, he felt it.

The new power coursing through his veins.

He didn’t know exactly what he had unlocked.

But he knew one thing.

He wasn’t the same as before.

And this world was about to find out.

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