The icy wind from the mountains brushed against Chris's skin once again. The light of the rising sun beckoned his eyes to open, waking him from a long sleep.
He opened his eyes. For the second time, he was greeted by a vision straight out of a dream: flower-filled fields stretching as far as he could see, clear streams winding through the land, dense forests, and in the background, snow-covered mountains watching over it all in silence. The scene was so perfect it begged to be framed.
Chris remained still for a few moments, still inside his makeshift tent, absorbing the view.
"Time to go, I guess..." he murmured, yawning as he scratched his arm. The grass hadn't been kind to his skin overnight. "Staying here won't get me anywhere."
His situation was… unusual, to say the least.
The morning before, he'd woken up under that same tree, with no memory of how he got there — or even where he was. All he had were the clothes on his back and a crumpled five-dollar bill in his pocket. Not even shoes. Fear and confusion nearly overtook him, but he forced himself to act. He had to survive.
It had been the hardest day of his life — and the night, even worse. The cold, the sounds, the eyes he sometimes swore he saw between the trees… That night, Chris had felt fear the way it was meant to be felt: raw, instinctive. The kind that doesn't think — it just prepares the body to run or fight. The kind of fear nature teaches you when you're alone in it.
'It's over, Chris… it's over.' He suppressed a shiver at the memory.
Exhaustion had nearly won, until something broke through the silence of dawn: a distant horn. A sound far too unnatural for that place — artificial. A sign of civilization.
A train.
If there was a train, there had to be tracks. And if there were tracks... there was a way out. People. Help.
That sound had been the anchor that finally allowed sleep to take him, if only for a few hours.
Now, with a calmer mind, he dismantled the shelter of branches with ease and began walking, eyes fixed in the direction the sound had come from.
The journey would be rough with bare feet, but he had no choice — not if he wanted to survive.
…
After at least an hour and a half of walking downhill — and collecting a few blisters — Chris finally reached a dirt road.
He followed it in silence, his feet aching with every step, until the train tracks appeared, steel lines cutting through the landscape. His heart picked up with anticipation as he walked alongside the rails.
It wasn't long before a silhouette broke the monotony of the horizon.
"Finally..." he muttered, letting out a relieved sigh. "No bear chow for me today, thankfully."
As he drew closer, the silhouette took shape: a rustic cabin, built from stacked logs in an old-fashioned style. The sight made Chris wonder if he'd stumbled into a preserved park — or maybe a historical train station.
Just behind the cabin, a wooden water tower raised on a support frame reinforced that impression even more.
On the side, a large stone chimney held up a weathered wooden sign that read: Wallace Station.
"Wallace Station..." he repeated quietly.
The name sounded familiar, but no matter how hard he tried, Chris couldn't remember where he'd heard it before.
He stepped onto the wooden platform that served as the building's foundation. His aching feet were grateful to be off the road. Circling the structure, he confirmed what he already suspected: it was indeed a train station. Fixed benches sat beneath a simple awning, offering shade from the sun.
On the main wall, behind protective bars, sat a bored-looking man adjusting his overly large mustache. Mid-forties, Chris guessed. He wore a dark blue uniform, faded with age — an old-style cut, with a cap and everything. Anywhere else, it might've looked like a costume. Here, it was probably just the uniform.
"Howdy, partner!" The man's eyes lit up when he noticed Chris approaching. He straightened up, smoothed out his wrinkled clothes, and breathed in with more formality. "Where you headed?"
"Actually... I'm kind of lost." Chris scratched his head, embarrassed. "I was hoping to get some information. Where exactly am I?"
Only then did the man really look at him — eyes scanning from head to toe: the bare feet, the dirty and worn clothes, the messy blond hair.
"Poor kid..." he whistled, leaning on the counter. "Looks like you've been through some rough times, huh?" He adjusted his cap. "You're at Wallace Station, son. Right on the border between West Elizabeth and Ambarino."
Chris blinked.
'West Elizabeth? Ambarino?'
He knew those names. Knew them very well, in fact. And he remembered exactly where from.
The thing was — they weren't real.
They came from a game. The best game he'd ever played, actually.
Red Dead Redemption 2.
Two of the explorable states in that vast virtual — supposedly fictional — world.
"This doesn't make any sense… that's impossible. They just have the same names, that's all."
He wasn't even from the U.S., to begin with. Maybe these places actually existed, and the game had just used them as inspiration. He wouldn't know.
Chris stood still, staring at the map hanging on the station wall.
West Elizabeth. Ambarino. Dakota River. Strawberry. Valentine. Blackwater…
They were all there. Just like in the game. Like they'd always been. But now… they were here. Real.
There's no way all of them existed… right?
His stomach twisted. A cold sweat broke along his neck. He raised a hand to his forehead, trying to process it.
He staggered outside, eyes sweeping across the landscape. The terrain. The forest. He knew this place. Every curve in the road. Every hill in the distance. Even Wallace Station itself came rushing back to his memory now, clear as day.
"I'm inside the game."
The words slipped out, barely a whisper. But hearing them made his spine tingle.
Part of him wanted to scream. Another wanted to run. Another wanted to laugh. He dropped to the hard earth, trembling.
"Holy shit..."
A nervous chuckle escaped.
He stretched out his hand and pinched his leg hard. It hurt. He looked at his filthy feet. Felt the cold wind. The smell of wood. The creak of the station behind him.
He really was here.
'This is insane... This is real…' he thought.
And as absurd as it was, this was the best thing that had ever happened to him.
"Everything alright over there, friend?" called the attendant, leaning his head past the bars.
"Yeah, yeah... all good." Chris exhaled heavily.
He got up and walked back to the counter, still a bit unsteady, pulling the crumpled five-dollar bill from his pocket. He looked at it more carefully this time. The design was old. The face on it — someone he didn't recognize.
"How much would it be to the nearest town?"
"The nearest town… that'd be Valentine." The man twirled his mustache with one finger. "That'll be about..."
He paused. His expression softened. His eyes shifted, going from Chris to the bill in his hand.
"Four dollars."
Chris wasn't, by any means, blind to that gesture.
A sincere smile spread across his face. He handed the bill to the man and received a ticket, along with some change, in his still-dirty hands. Pocketing both, he extended his hand again — this time, for a handshake.
"Thanks, friend."
The man's hand met his in a firm grip.
"Don't mention it." He smiled. "The train'll be here soon. You can wait on the benches there. And be careful out there."