Scene 1 – Before the Storm
Milwaukee Wisconsin— 2 YEARS AGO
Trayvon Phillips had the kind of smile that could charm security guards and get free refills. But it had been a long time since he smiled like that.
He sat alone on a weathered park bench, hoodie pulled tight, watching the city breathe without him. Cars passed. Couples laughed. Life went on. Just not for him.
His phone buzzed—another rejection email. EMT internship: declined. No call back. No explanation.
He let the phone fall into his lap and slumped forward, elbows on knees. His fingers absentmindedly played with the necklace around his neck: a dog tag with no name, just a scuffed quote from his grandfather—
> "If the world won't give you a place, carve your own."
Easier said than done.
Trayvon used to believe in that. Used to think he could help people. He was the kid who bandaged stray dogs, who learned CPR at thirteen, who tried to carry everyone else's pain like a badge. But that kind of heart doesn't always survive in a system built to break you.
His mom passed when he was sixteen. Cancer. Fast. Unfair.
His dad disappeared two months later. No note. Just gone.
And Trayvon—Trayvon kept pushing, trying to prove he wasn't broken, trying to be better than what the world handed him.
But Atlanta didn't care.
His degree got dusty. His savings bled dry.
He bounced from couch to couch. Friend to friend. Until there weren't any more left.
Today, he wasn't even trying to fix things. He was just surviving.
A half-smoked blunt from some guy in the skate park. A packet of ramen waiting in his borrowed microwave.
That was his victory today.
SCENE END TRANSITION:
Trayvon leans back on the bench. Somewhere overhead, a single gray cloud begins to swell. It's quiet, just for now. But the storm's coming.
Scene 2 – Apartment 3C and the Final Decision
PRESENT DAY – ONE WEEK BEFORE THE STRIKE
Apartment 3C was held together by duct tape, sarcasm, and the will of the roaches who'd claimed squatters' rights.
Trayvon kicked the door shut behind him, keys jingling as he dropped them in a chipped ceramic bowl by the door. His hoodie clung to him from the humidity, and his boots thudded against the warped floorboards like a man coming back from war.
Inside, it smelled like leftover takeout and resignation.
He passed a cracked mirror and glanced at himself. Half-grown facial hair. Circles under his eyes. Tank top. Sweatpants. No real plan.
He collapsed onto the couch, grabbing the half-empty bottle of something cheap from the coffee table and letting out a long sigh.
"This ain't living," he muttered to the ceiling.
His phone lit up on the table again. Another text from Kellin, one of the few people who still checked in.
> Kellin: "U good? U ghosted again. We worried."
He stared at the screen a long time. Kellin was always checking on him, always reaching. But Trayvon had grown tired of trying to explain that being alive didn't mean being okay.
He typed back:
> "I'm good. Just tired. Talk soon."
A lie. But a gentle one.
He stood and walked to the kitchen. The fridge hummed like it knew it was too old to fight him. Inside: a bottle of hot sauce, a single bottle of water, and a ramen cup.
The water boiled. Steam kissed his face. He leaned on the counter.
And then, like it struck him harder than any lightning bolt ever could:
"I'm tired of waiting for life to change. I need to change it."
He didn't know what that meant exactly.
Job hunt? Pack up and leave town? Call Kellin and maybe actually talk this time?
Didn't matter.
He just knew he had to move.
"Tomorrow. First step. I don't care how small it is—I'm takin' it."
SCENE END TRANSITION:
Outside the apartment, the streetlamp flickers. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolls like a warning cough from a sleeping god. Something's listening.
Scene 3 – Storm Warning
The morning air smelled like metal and misfortune.
Trayvon Phillips stood in the narrow hallway of his rundown apartment complex, backpack slung over one shoulder, boots laced, hoodie pulled tight. His phone was dead. His rent was due. And for the first time in months, he didn't feel paralyzed.
Just... determined.
He gripped the doorknob and looked back at the dim apartment.
One mattress. One bag. No plan.
"Not tryna be perfect," he muttered. "Just tryna move."
The sky outside had turned slate-gray. Humid. Heavy. A deep, slow thunder rolled somewhere overhead like a warning cough from the universe. He heard it. Chose to ignore it.
Trayvon opened the door and stepped outside—
CRACK-BOOM.
A lightning bolt cleaved through the clouds and hit him dead center.
His body hit the ground before he even had time to process the pain. One heartbeat. Then none.
WHITE VOID — THE ELSEWHERE
Trayvon's eyes opened slowly.
Everything was white.
Not sterile. Not warm. Just... plain. Infinite. Flat.
He stood up and looked around. No walls. No sun. No floor. But somehow, he wasn't falling.
"...Okay. What the hell."
He took a few steps forward, eyes narrowed.
"Am I in a Bruce Almighty situation? Is Morgan Freeman about to pop out and give me a a really good explanation on what's going on or some speech or something?"
No answer.
"No? Damn. I was gonna ask for a redo and some therapy."
A swirling ripple of light opened in front of him. Out stepped a robed figure—disheveled, distracted, and holding a clipboard that looked like it was glitching.
"Trayvon Phillips! Whew, okay, we're doing this. Hi. Sorry about the lightning. Big, big mistake on my part."
Trayvon:
"...You're not Morgan Freeman."
R.O.B. (nervously chuckling):
"Nope! I'm R.O.B. Random Omnipotent Being. Don't let the name fool you—I'm extremely professional when I'm not multitasking."
He tripped over a floating scroll and kicked it behind a desk that didn't exist a second ago.
Trayvon folded his arms.
"So. You killed me?"
R.O.B.:
"Accidentally, yes. I was aiming for a transdimensional mosquito. You walked out at the exact nanosecond the bolt fired."
Trayvon:
"So you're telling me I got smoked by divine pest control?"
R.O.B.:
"Divine atmospheric redirection, actually. Anyway! I can't send you back to your timeline—paperwork, too many witnesses—but I can offer compensation."
He clapped his hands. A giant glowing WHEEL OF DESTINIES appeared, slowly rotating through endless universes: "The Slime Reincarnation Realm," "Magic School for Criminals," "Zombie America," etc.
Trayvon:
"This is the dumbest PowerPoint I've ever seen."
R.O.B. (cheerfully):
"Thank you! Now let's see where you're headed..."
Click-click-click…
The wheel stopped on:
> THE WALKING DEAD — UNBOUND VARIANT
Trayvon squinted.
"I've seen that show. Y'all better not drop me somewhere with no Wi-Fi and baby wipes for currency."
R.O.B. (ignoring him):
"This one's special. It's got spice. Genetic mutations. Factional warfare. Ethical breakdowns. Oh—and zombies, obviously."
Trayvon:
"You really just gonna yeet me into zombie Detroit and call it a blessing?"
R.O.B.:
"Not quite. I'm offering perks! You get two starter packs. You get dropped two weeks before the virus hits. And if you agree to let me increase the difficulty a tiny bit... you unlock the full Summoning System. Mutations. Weapons. AI assistant. Whole buffet."
Trayvon smirked.
"So I'm your DLC guinea pig."
R.O.B.:
"Think of it more like... early access hero with cosmic benefits."
Trayvon looked at the glowing portal forming beside him.
"Fine. But I want my system loud, British, and dramatic. If I'm gonna be in an apocalypse, I'm doing it with flair."
SCENE END TRANSITION:
The portal expands. Trayvon steps forward. The white void rumbles like a stomach after bad tacos. And just like that—he's gone.
Scene 4 – Reboot (
LOCATION: UNKNOWN JUNKYARD — 14 DAYS BEFORE OUTBREAK
THUMP.
Trayvon landed hard—knees first, palms scraping dirt and gravel. The world jolted into color around him, sunlight filtering through crooked pine trees, rusted metal, and the skeletal remains of forgotten machines.
"Ow… damn…"
He rolled onto his side, catching his breath. The air smelled like rain, iron, and motor oil. Overhead, crows croaked lazily from the broken beams of a collapsed shed.
[SYSTEM ONLINE.]
A translucent interface bloomed in front of his eyes like a HUD from a sci-fi movie—cool, blue, sharp.
> [Welcome, Host: Trayvon Phillips.]
[Multiversal Fictional Summoning System successfully soul-bound.]
[Dimensional Shift Complete. Universe: The Walking Dead (Unbound Variant).]
Then came the voice—elegant, British, and smug as hell.
> "You've landed safely. Congratulations on surviving atmospheric compression. Mild bruising. Dignity loss: 23%."
Trayvon (muttering):
"Yeah, I can feel that…"
He sat up slowly, blinking at his surroundings. It wasn't a battlefield. It wasn't a warzone.
It was quiet.
Too quiet.
No sirens. No car horns. No screaming.
Just the buzz of flies and the creak of shifting junk metal. A collapsed fence half-buried a pickup truck beside him. Empty beer cans scattered around an old tire.
He turned—behind him sat a weathered black backpack. Familiar now. Marked with a glowing sigil only he could see.
His starter packs. Both sealed. Untouched.
He reached for the strap—but stopped himself. Instinct kicked in.
Not yet.
Trayvon (to the air):
"What's the date?"
> [Timeline sync confirms: Two weeks prior to viral detonation. Countdown active.]
> [T-Minus 13 Days, 21 Hours, 11 Minutes.]
He exhaled. That was the deal.
Two weeks to prep.
Two weeks to carve a space in a world that would soon collapse.
Two weeks before death got loud.
Trayvon stood.
Dust fell off his jeans as he adjusted his hoodie, glancing back at the tree line. He had no weapons. No shelter. No clue where he really was. But for the first time in a long time, he had direction.
And a System humming in his soul like a sleeping dragon.
> [Note: Starter Packs available but unopened.]
[System recommends caution. This world is alive.]
> "And it's watching you already," the voice added quietly.
Trayvon narrowed his eyes.
In the distance, he saw the faded road signs. Just beyond the trees—civilization. Or what was left of it.
He didn't know what he'd find.
But he knew who he'd become
"Alright then," he muttered. "Let's see how far this rabbit hole goes."
END OF CHAPTER ONE