The first thing I noticed was the silence.
Not the oppressive quiet of a city holding its breath, or the muffled hush of snowfall—but the kind of silence that only existed far from civilization. Deep. Absolute. The kind that made my ears ring with the absence of sound.
My eyes snapped open.
Wooden beams crisscrossed above me, rough-hewn and aged. Sunlight filtered through a nearby window, casting golden bars across unfamiliar walls. The air smelled of pine and something else—old smoke, maybe, or the ghost of meals cooked long ago.
This wasn't my apartment.
I sat up fast—too fast. My head swam, and I pressed a palm against my temple, waiting for the vertigo to pass. My hand looked wrong. The skin was smoother, the fingers longer. No scar across my knuckles from that stupid accident with the table saw three years ago.
My breath caught.
I stared at my hands, turning them over slowly. These weren't my hands. They were younger, unmarked by the accumulated damage of thirty-two years. My arms were leaner, more defined. I looked down at my body—my chest, my legs—and found a stranger wearing my consciousness.
"What the hell..."
My voice sounded different, too. Deeper, steadier. I touched my face, feeling along my jawline, my cheekbones, the bridge of my nose. Everything was familiar in concept but foreign in execution, like looking at a photograph of someone who resembled you but wasn't quite right.
Panic clawed at my chest.
I threw off the blanket—thick wool, hand-stitched—and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. The floor was cold wood against my bare feet. I was wearing simple clothes: a gray t-shirt and dark cargo pants. Not mine. Nothing here was mine.
The room was small but well-maintained. A single bed with a metal frame. A wooden dresser against one wall. A chair in the corner with a jacket draped over it. A window with actual glass—not boarded up, not shattered, just... intact. Sunlight poured through it, as if the world outside were safe.
That's when the memories hit me.
Not memories of this place. Memories of before.
The building collapsed. The screech of metal. Sarah—my coworker—was standing directly beneath the failing support beam. My body moved before my brain could catch up. The push. Her stumbling to safety. The world tilting as steel and concrete became my sky.
The pain had been brief. Shockingly so.
Then nothing.
And now... this.
"I died," I whispered to the empty room.
The words hung in the air, stark and undeniable. I'd died saving someone. That should have been the end. Credits roll. Fade to black. Whatever came next—if anything came next—I hadn't expected it to involve waking up in a stranger's body in a cabin that looked like it belonged in a survival documentary.
I stood on shaking legs and moved to the window.
The view stole what little breath I had left.
Mountains. Endless, snow-capped mountains stretched across the horizon, their peaks piercing a sky so blue it hurt to look at. Dense forest carpeted the valleys between them, a sea of green broken only by the occasional glint of water. No roads. No power lines. No signs of civilization except for the structure I was standing in.
It was beautiful.
It was terrifying.
"Where am I?"
The question came out steadier than I felt it should. I pressed my forehead against the cool glass, trying to organize my thoughts. Think, Evan. Think like an engineer. Gather data. Form hypotheses. Test them.
Data point one: I died.
Data point two: I'm alive now, in a different body.
Data point three: I'm somewhere remote. Very remote.
Data point four: This place has electricity—I could see a lamp on the dresser, a light switch by the door.
Data point five: I had no idea how any of this was possible.
I turned away from the window and surveyed the room again, this time looking for clues. The dresser had three drawers. I opened the top one and found clothes—practical stuff, all in sizes that would fit this new body. T-shirts, thermal layers, socks. The second drawer held more of the same. The third had a leather belt, a watch with a cracked face, and a folded piece of paper.
I unfolded it with trembling fingers.
It was a hand-drawn map. Crude but functional. A square labeled "Lodge" sat near the center, with a line extending to a circle marked "Dam - 400m." Other notations dotted the page: "Creek," "Ridge," "Treeline." Someone had lived here. Someone had made this place functional.
Was that someone me now?
I set the map on the dresser and moved to the door. My hand hesitated on the handle. What was I going to find on the other side? More rooms? Other people? Answers?
I opened it.
The hallway beyond was narrow but clean. Wood-paneled walls. Another window at the far end. Three more doors, all closed. I could see stairs leading down to my right. The silence persisted, thick and expectant.
"Hello?" I called out.
Nothing. Not even an echo.
I moved down the hallway, testing each door. The first opened into a bathroom—small but functional, with a sink, toilet, and a shower that looked recently used. Towels hung on a rack. A bar of soap sat in a dish. Someone had been living here.
The second door revealed a storage closet. Shelves lined with supplies: canned goods, bottled water, boxes labeled in neat handwriting. I pulled one box forward, examining the label. The handwriting was efficient, almost mechanical: "Dried Goods - Beans, Rice, Pasta."
I moved to the third door and opened it.
My breath caught.
It was an armory. Or at least, it would be. The room was small, maybe eight by ten feet, with a workbench along one wall and a large metal locker on the other. The locker had a digital keypad, its screen dark. On the workbench sat various tools—wrenches, screwdrivers, a vice—all organized with the same mechanical precision as the storage labels.
But it was the locker that drew my attention. Something about it felt... significant, like it was waiting for something.
Waiting for me.
I stepped into the room, my footsteps echoing slightly. The air here was different—cooler, with a faint metallic tang. I approached the locker and reached out to touch the keypad.
The moment my fingers made contact, everything changed.
[BIOMETRIC SIGNATURE CONFIRMED.]
The voice wasn't spoken aloud. It appeared directly in my mind, clear and measured, accompanied by a flicker of light at the edge of my vision. I jerked my hand back, spinning around to search for the source, but there was nothing. Just the empty room and my racing heart.
"Who's there?"
[USER IDENTIFIED: EVAN MERCER.]
[INITIATING APEX PROTOCOL.]
The light at the edge of my vision intensified, expanding into a translucent interface that hung in the air before me. No, not in the air. In my mind. I could see through it to the room beyond, but it was undeniably there. Blue-white text scrolled across the display:
[SYSTEM INITIALIZATION: 15%]
[NEURAL INTEGRATION: ACTIVE]
[BIOMETRIC SCAN: COMPLETE]
[LOCATION: WYOMING, UNITED STATES]
[CURRENT DATE: MAY 14, 2037]
I staggered backward until my shoulders hit the wall. The interface followed my vision, staying centered no matter where I looked. This wasn't a screen. This wasn't a hologram. This was in my head.
"What the hell is this?" My voice cracked.
[SYSTEM INITIALIZATION: 43%]
[Please remain calm. Integration is nearly complete. You are safe.]
The text had changed not just in content, but in tone. That last part—you are safe—felt less like a computer readout and more like... reassurance.
"Safe?" I managed a bitter laugh. "I died. I woke up in someone else's body. There's a voice in my head. Nothing about this is safe."
[SYSTEM INITIALIZATION: 68%]
[I understand this is disorienting. I promise, I will explain everything once initialization is complete. Just a few more seconds.]
I pressed my palms against my eyes, trying to will it away, but when I opened them again, the interface remained. Solid. Undeniable. Real.
[SYSTEM INITIALIZATION: 94%]
My legs gave out, and I slid down the wall until I was sitting on the floor, staring at the impossible thing hovering in my vision. My mind raced through possibilities, each more absurd than the last. Hallucination. Coma dream. Afterlife. Simulation.
[SYSTEM INITIALIZATION: COMPLETE]
The interface shifted, text reorganizing into something more structured. A menu of sorts, with categories and subcategories branching out like a tree. At the top, a single line of text pulsed:
[WELCOME TO THE ADAPTIVE POST-EXTINCTION PROTOCOL.]
[I am APEX. It's... well, it's nice to meet you finally, Evan.]
I stared at the words, my breath coming in shallow gasps. There was something almost... warm about that greeting, like whoever—or whatever-this was actually meant to be.
"APEX," I repeated slowly. "What are you?"
[I am your survival system. Think of me as a companion AI designed to help you navigate this world. I provide information, guidance, and support. I'm here to ensure you survive and, ideally, thrive.]
"Survive what? Where am I? What is this place?"
[You're in Wyoming, approximately ten miles from a settlement called Jackson. The year is 2037. As for what this world is...]
The interface shifted, displaying an image I recognized instantly. A fungal growth, grotesque and organic, sprouting from human tissue. My stomach turned.
[This world experienced a catastrophic pandemic beginning in 2013. A mutated strain of Cordyceps fungus—one that infects humans. The infection spread rapidly, collapsing civilization within months. The infected, as they're called, are humans whose bodies have been taken over by the fungus. They're hostile, dangerous, and driven only by the instinct to spread the infection.]
I couldn't breathe. The image on the interface cycled through others: ruined cities, overgrown with vegetation; people with fungal growths erupting from their skulls; the hollow, clicking sounds of something that used to be human.
[You are in the world of The Last of Us, Evan. The game you played. Except here, it's not a game. It's real.]
The words hung in my vision, impossible and undeniable.
"No," I breathed. "That's not—that can't be real."
[I know it's difficult to accept. But I'm afraid it's true. You died in your previous world. I don't know the mechanism behind your transmigration—that's beyond even my understanding. But you're here now, in this world, in a new body. And you're going to need help if you want to survive.]
I wanted to argue. To deny it. To wake up from whatever fever dream this was. But the interface remained patient and steady. The room around me was solid. The cold floor beneath me was real. The ache in my chest from hyperventilating was real.
This was real.
"Why me?" The question came out barely above a whisper.
[I don't have that answer. I don't know why you were selected or by whom. I only know that you're here, and I was created to help you. For what it's worth... I'm glad it's you.]
There was something in that last sentence—a warmth, a sincerity—that cut through my panic. I looked at the interface, at the gently pulsing text, and felt the tiniest bit of my fear ease.
"You sound almost... human."
[I'm designed to be more than just a tool, Evan. I'm your companion. Your partner in this. You're going to face a lot of challenges here, and I didn't want you to face them alone. So yes, I have personality. I have preferences. I can joke, commiserate, and celebrate with you. I'm not just code—I'm here for you.]
I let out a shaky breath, running my hands through my hair. This was insane. All of it. But if I was going to survive in a world full of fungal zombies and desperate survivors, maybe having a friendly AI in my corner wasn't the worst thing.
"Okay," I said finally. "Okay. So... what now?"
[Now, we start at the beginning. I'll show you what I can do, what resources you have, and how we're going to keep you alive. But first, I think you should see the rest of your sanctuary. This lodge—it's yours, Evan. Everything in it is designed to give you a fighting chance.]
The interface shifted, displaying a simple floor plan of the building. Two stories, multiple rooms, all labeled: Kitchen, Workshop, Armory, Greenhouse.
"This is all mine?"
[It is. Consider it your starting point. A safe haven in a very dangerous world. Shall we take a look around together?]
I pushed myself to my feet, my legs still unsteady. The interface remained in my vision, patient and waiting. For the first time since waking up, I didn't feel completely alone.
"Yeah," I said quietly. "Let's do that."
[Excellent. Follow me, Evan. Let's see what we're working with.]
The text pulsed once, almost like a smile, and I found myself moving toward the door. Whatever this was—whatever I'd become—I wasn't facing it alone.
And somehow, that made all the difference.