"Wake the fuck up, Dean."
A boot connected with his ribs—not hard enough to break anything, but enough to make him groan and curl inward. Dean blinked up at the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, his vision swimming. The concrete floor beneath him was cold, the air smelling like antiseptic and something metallic.
"You're not in Kansas anymore," said the voice, dry as sandpaper. Dean turned his head and saw a man in a black tactical vest leaning against a steel table, arms crossed. His face was all sharp angles, like he'd been carved out of granite. "Actually, scratch that. You're not even on Earth anymore. Congrats—you just got drafted."
Dean pushed himself up onto his elbows, his head pounding. "Drafted into what?"
The man smirked and tossed him a sleek, translucent tablet. It flickered to life in Dean's hands, displaying a bold, glowing screen:
**STATUS SCREEN**
**Name: Dean**
**Origin: Earth-1218 (Baseline Human)**
**Current World: ???**
**Abilities: NONE**
**System Points: 0**
Dean's stomach dropped. This wasn't just some VR bullshit. The numbers pulsed faintly, shifting as he watched, like they were alive.
"First rule," the man said, straightening up. "Don't die. Second rule? Don't trust anyone who smiles too much." He jerked his chin toward the door. "Now get moving. You've got five minutes before the first wave hits."
Dean didn't ask what the first wave was. He already knew—not from experience, but from the dozens of novels he'd devoured back home. This was worse than he'd ever imagined.
And it was only the beginning.