Dean pushed himself up, legs shaking like wet noodles. His back hit the wall as he steadied himself, half-expecting the door to bust open and those smiling freaks to pour in. But thankfully they didn't.
Boyd pointed at the couch. "Sit down. Catch your breath."
Dean didn't argue. He walked across the room and dropped onto the couch, the cushions groaning. His whole body still buzzed with leftover adrenaline, like he'd been plugged into a damn socket.
Boyd walked off into the kitchen. Dean heard water running, a glass clinking. His eyes wandered—curtains nailed shut, scratches on the walls, furniture shoved around like it'd been dragged back and forth a dozen times. Didn't look like a home. More like a bunker. Just with throw pillows.
Boyd came back with a plain glass of water, set it on the table, and sat down across from him.
Dean muttered, "You got whiskey? Vodka? Hell, rubbing alcohol?"
Boyd gave him a tired look but stayed quiet.
Dean cracked a smile, grabbed the glass, and gulped half like it was the good stuff. The water burned going down, even though it was just water. He leaned back, staring at the ceiling, glass still in hand.
That's when it hit him.
The car. The flash. Monsters crawling out of the dark. Ghost Veil giving him seven seconds, no more. Every damn second a countdown. And somehow—he'd made it.
"Fuck," he whispered. He sucked in a shaky breath and blew it out slow. For once, Dean didn't have a smart-ass line. He just sat there, counting breaths like he was teaching himself how to breathe.
Boyd didn't say a word. Just watched him with that patient look, like he'd seen plenty of people hit this wall before—new arrivals who finally realized this was their life now.
Outside, the gray sky was turning orange. The monsters had slipped away, but Dean couldn't stop imagining them out in the trees, still grinning, waiting for their shift to start again.
Dean dropped his hands and looked at Boyd. "How many times you done this? Sit someone down, hand 'em water, watch 'em realize they're screwed six ways to Sunday?"
Boyd's mouth twitched. "Enough. Fewer than before."
Dean drank from the glass again and after clearing his throat, he asked,"So… rules. Systems. Do I get a manual, or what?"
Boyd leaned forward, resting on his knees. "You saw the talisman on the door?"
Dean frowned. "The what?"
Boyd nodded toward the wooden carving by the door. Dean hadn't noticed it before—he'd been too busy not dying. But as he had watched the show, he knew that every house in the town had one.
"That keeps them out," Boyd said. "As long as it's there, and you don't open the door, you're safe. Step outside after dark… you're not."
Dean squinted at the carving. "Wait. That little piece of wood keeps those freaks away? No garlic, no holy water, no silver bullets—just arts and crafts?"
Boyd said it flat. "It works."
Dean raised his hands. "Hey, no complaints here. If a wood carving keeps my neck attached, I'll hang one around my neck. Hell, I'll tattoo it on my ass."
For a second, Boyd almost smiled. "Then you'll fit in fine."
The light outside grew stronger, dark fading fast.
Dean sagged back against the couch and shut his eyes for a second. His chest was finally slowing down, though his head was buzzing worse than before.
They talked more after that. Boyd usually didn't spill much this early—newcomers needed time, space to process—but something about Dean made him bend that rule. The kid wasn't pretending this was all a dream. He wasn't pacing or shouting or demanding answers like most. He was listening, sharp-eyed, sarcastic sure, but taking it in.
So Boyd told him. Not everything—never everything—but more than he normally would. He explained the town. How nobody really remembered arriving the same way, just driving down some road that shouldn't have been there and ending up here. How there was no getting out once you were in. How the sun went down and the monsters came out smiling, patient, waiting.
Dean didn't interrupt much. He just sat there, glass turning in his hand, sometimes tossing in a half-smile or muttered curse. When Boyd finished laying down the basics, Dean finally gave him his story. Or at least, the parts he was willing to share. The car ride. The fallen tree. The sudden drop into this nightmare. He skipped the "portal" thing—no way he was telling Boyd about the system in his head. That stayed locked tight. But the rest, he laid out straight.
Boyd listened like he always did—quiet, steady, not judging, not pushing. When Dean trailed off, Boyd filled the silence with more truths. He told him about the two places people lived: the town itself, where folks like him tried to hold some order together, and Colony House up on the hill, where things ran loose. Two ways of surviving, two ways of coping. Neither perfect. Both necessary.
Dean raised his eyebrows. "So, what, you people flip a coin when new meat shows up? Town life or treehouse cult?"
Boyd shook his head, tired smile tugging at his face. "We let people choose. That's how it works. Everyone decides for themselves where they think they'll last."
"Sounds like a reality show," Dean muttered. "Choose your apocalypse. Door A, door B."
"It's not...." Boyd replied almost hoping that he would be wrong but the hard truth and deaths in this place definitely didn't point towards it.
Boyd stood finally, stretching his back with a groan. He looked toward the window, eyes narrowing like he was already counting problems waiting out there. "I've got to make rounds. Patrol the streets. Check the wards." He looked back at Dean. "Take the day. Think on what I said. Meet people. You'll need them."
And then after patting Dean's shoulder he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.
Dean sat alone on the couch with the empty glass still in his hand. The silence grew heavy. His mind replayed Boyd's words about survival, choices, and community—but his thoughts slipped away to something else.
He thought about home.
His parents came to mind first. He could see his mom's face clearly, her laugh that was always cariy and warm. He remembered his dad's steady voice, the kind that could calm him no matter how bad things got. Dean imagined them waking up to find him gone without explanation. No note. No clue. Just gone. He could see the worry in their eyes, the endless days of searching, the fear that something terrible had happened.
Then his grandparents came to mind. They were slower, older, but they always sensed when something was wrong. He could almost hear his grandmother saying, "Dean would never just disappear like that." His grandfather would not say much, only sit in his chair with that quiet grief written all over him.
Then came the hardest thought—his little five years old sister. He had promised her many times that he would always be there for her. Now he wasn't even in the same world. Would she cry at night, waiting for him? Would she keep looking at the door, hoping he would walk back in? The thought tore at him.
Dean rubbed a hand over his face. Frustration tightened in his chest. He wasn't dead. He was alive and breathing. But to them, it would be no different than if he had been buried. His disappearance would leave wounds that would never heal.
He wished he could tell them. He wished there was some way to reach through the wall between worlds and say he was okay. He was still alive. He was still trying. If this system had any fairness at all, maybe one day he could find a way back. Maybe one day he could stand in front of them again.
But right now, this was all he had—another strange world, another set of rules, and the strange advantage only he carried.
Dean let out a long sigh and set the glass aside. He told himself enough was enough. If he ever wanted to get back—or even accept that he might not—he had to keep moving forward. He needed strength, skills, and resources. That was the only path ahead.
With that thought, he opened the World Travel panel in his mind. The familiar translucent screen bloomed into view, offering comfort in its own strange way. His last mission had paid off big—an excellent haul of 200 points. Added to what he already had, the total glowed bright at the corner of the panel. He couldn't wait to see what new options had appeared in both the Abilities and Skills sections.
This was his chance. His only chance.
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The 'From' World will go on for at least 150- 200 chapters. Of course since there are only three seasons, I have added some of my own theories and plot to it too.
Also I haven't yet decided on the next worlds after From. Though I do have some in mind. Would you guys please suggest me some TV shows and movies to which he could travel to. Keep in mind that these suggestions should not be of ordinary Series or movies. Some kind of fantasy or supernatural factor is a must in those suggestions.
And I would appreciate it, if you also suggest those worlds of which the fanfiction is not yet made in this Webnovel App. But they should be sufficiently popular enough too.
Thank you guys.
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