Chapter Text
I just hope we are doing the right thing.
I’m running.
Boots strike concrete in perfect rhythm—left, right, left—each step precise, drilled into muscle long before thought gets involved. The corridor is narrow, industrial, washed in sterile gray. Red lights pulse overhead like a warning heartbeat.
“Faster.”
The voice isn’t shouted. It doesn’t need to be. Authority doesn’t waste breath.
I vault a low barrier without breaking stride, rifle coming up automatically, finger indexed along the guard. Targets rise from the walls—black silhouettes, center mass marked in white. Three shots. Three hits. I don’t even look to confirm.
This isn’t fear.
This is training.
The air smells like oil and ozone. Somewhere, something explodes—controlled, distant. A flash of white cuts through my vision and—
The room changes.
Now it’s clean. Too clean. Polished steel table. Two chairs bolted to the floor. Umbrella logo etched into the glass wall like a brand burned into skin.
I’m seated. Across from me is Spence.
He looks the same as he always does here—composed, sharp suit, no trace of the man I’ll later know as nervous or slippery. This version of him belongs to Umbrella. So do I.
A man in a dark uniform stands at the head of the table. No nameplate. No wasted movement. He slides two folders forward.
“Your assignment is internal security,” he says. “Cover designation: married couple. You will reside above the Hive. Mansion staff will be briefed on a need-to-know basis.”
I opened the folder. My photo stares back at me. Blank eyes. A name I don’t recognize but somehow accept.
Spence doesn’t react. That’s his strength. He’s good at playing roles.
“The Hive’s importance cannot be overstated,” the officer continues. “Public exposure is unacceptable. Your marriage provides insulation. Legal protection. Plausible deniability.”
“What about termination clauses?” I ask.
The officer’s eyes flick to me—just long enough to register interest.
“In the event of compromise,” he says evenly, “you protect the Hive.”
Not each other. Not yourselves.
The Hive comes first.
Spence glances at me then. Something unreadable passes between us. Not affection. Not trust.
Understanding.
I nod once. “Understood.”
The officer stands. “This briefing never happened.”
The lights cut out.
Another flash—brighter this time, violent—and everything shatters.
I wake up gasping.
White. Endless white.
The ceiling stretches too far above me—smooth, seamless, almost artificial—like it was never designed to be stared at, only endured. The light is brutal, fluorescent and unrelenting, burning straight through my eyelids. I blink hard, again and again, but it doesn’t dim. My breath comes fast and shallow, chest tight, lungs screaming like I’ve just sprinted for my life.
My body feels wrong.
Heavy. Hollow. Weak in a way that doesn’t belong to me. Like someone siphoned the strength out of my bones and left the shell behind.
Where am I?
I try to sit up.
My arms tremble violently, muscles quivering under the effort, refusing the command like they don’t recognize me anymore. Pain flares, sharp and immediate, and I collapse back against the surface beneath me.
That—that doesn’t make sense.
I know how to move. I know how to fight. I know how to push through pain—
Know what?
My mind scrambles, grasping for something solid, anything that proves I exist beyond this room. Faces snap into focus one after another.
Matt.
Kaplan.
Shade.
Rain.
The Hive. The corridors slick with blood. The screaming. The cold, sterile suits closing in on us just as we were about to get out.
My breath stutters.
I force my eyes open again, panic sharpening my senses. As I turn my head to scan the room, a bolt of pain detonates behind my eyes. I gasp, a small, broken sound slipping out before I can stop it.
Instinctively, I lift my hand to my head—
—and freeze.
Three thick needles are buried deep in my arm, translucent tubing snaking away from them to empty IV bags hanging overhead. The sight hits me like a slap.
“What the fuck—”
The words barely leave my mouth before I grab the needles with my left hand and rip them out.
Pain explodes up my arm, white-hot and blinding. I bite down hard, swallowing the scream that claws its way up my throat, my body jerking back against the cold metal bed beneath me. My vision fractures, black spots swimming violently as I fight to stay conscious.
Breathe. Don’t pass out. Not here.
I lie there for a few seconds—maybe longer—dragging air into my lungs, heart hammering so hard it feels like it might crack my ribs. Slowly, the room steadies. The white stops pulsing.
When I finally dare to move again, my hand shakes as I trail it up toward my scalp.
I feel them before I see them.
Two more needles.
Embedded directly into my skull.
Cold. Invasive. Purposeful.
My stomach drops.
This isn’t medical. This isn’t recovery.
This is preparation.
The thought slams into place with terrifying clarity, uninvited and absolute.
I want them in the Nemesis Program.
The words echo in my head as panic and fury crash together, white-hot and suffocating.
My hands clamp around the needles.
“I’m going to kill every single mother—”
The sentence shatters into a scream as I rip them out.
Metal tears free from my scalp, agony detonating behind my eyes. I lurch forward with a broken sound, finally sitting upright as both hands fly to my head. Warm blood spills between my fingers, trailing down my wrists and neck, sticky and unmistakably real.
A sob wrenches itself out of me before I can stop it. Hot tears blur my vision, streaking down my cheeks as my body shakes under the weight of it all—fear, rage, violation.
Breathe.
I force air into my lungs, deep and trembling, tilting my head back toward the ceiling. The light above is blinding, sterile, merciless against the pure white walls. For half a second, the access hallway outside the Red Queen’s chamber flashes through my mind—too clean, too bright—and my stomach rolls violently.
I tear my gaze away before I can be sick again.
The room comes into focus.
Bare. Clinical. A single monitoring machine hums beside the metal table I was laid on, its screen pulsing with numbers that mean nothing to me now. Across from me, unmistakable even in the glare, is a one-way mirror.
My anger surges all over again.
I swing my legs over the edge of the table and drop to the floor with a weak huff, knees threatening to buckle as my feet hit the cold surface. My legs feel rubbery, unreliable, like they might give out at any second.
That’s when I look down.
“That’s—” My voice cracks, then hardens. “Fucking perverts.”
The only thing covering me are two thin sheets of fabric, barely more than medical gauze, taped awkwardly to my front and back. Nothing else. No dignity. No pretense.
I lean heavily against the table, palms slick with blood, waiting for the room to stop tilting. When my legs finally stop shaking, I push myself upright and stagger toward the mirror.
I slam my fists against the glass.
“Hey!” I shout, the sound echoing back at me. “Open the door! Someone—anyone!”
Nothing.
I don’t even know what I’m asking for. Help, maybe. Answers. My friends—
The thought hits like a gut punch.
Matt’s eyes, wide with fear. Kaplan trying to stay calm, trying to be brave. The way they were dragged away in those sterile suits like cargo. Like they were already dead.
And Rain. Shade.
I don’t know where they are. I don’t know if they’re alive.
My stomach twists violently.
I barely have time to bend forward before I’m retching, bile splattering onto the pristine white floor. My body convulses, emptying itself of everything it has left, fear burning in my throat.
When it finally stops, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, breathing hard.
Focus.
Standing here falling apart won’t save them. It won’t save me.
I turn away from the mirror and shuffle toward the door in the corner. As I move, small drops of blood patter onto the ivory floor behind me, marking my path in uneven red dots.
I press my face to the narrow window, breath fogging the glass as I peer out.
The hallway beyond is silent.
Overturned gurneys lie abandoned, medical equipment scattered across the floor like it was dropped in a hurry. Papers are strewn everywhere, curling at the edges, smeared with footprints and dark stains.
Whatever happened here—
—it happened fast.
“Guess everyone was in a hurry to get out,” I mutter, fingers curling around the cold metal door handle, “and I didn’t make the cut.”
The thought comes again, uninvited. Heavy. Certain.
I want them in the Nemesis Program.
My hands still.
“Or maybe…” I exhale sharply, staring at my reflection warped in the narrow window, “…maybe I did.”
My gaze drops to the lock. A keycard terminal glows faintly beside it—clean, untouched, mocking. No card. Of course not.
But they left something else behind.
I turn back to the table and grab one of the needles I tore from my scalp, a blood puddle forming around it. It feels wrong in my hand, but familiar in a way I don’t want to think about.
I jam it into the keycard slot.
There’s resistance at first. Then I angle it, sliding the metal along the internal prongs, searching by instinct more than logic. A faint click answers me. The terminal chirps once.
The lock disengages.
My breath catches.
Slowly, carefully, I pull the door open and step into the hallway, senses screaming as I glance left, then right.
Nothing.
Either this is a test… or they truly left me behind when everything went to hell.
A green EXIT sign glows at the far end to my left, pulsing softly like a promise. Freedom. Air. Distance from whatever Umbrella plans to turn me into.
I ignore it.
Instead, I turn right.
My bare feet pad quietly over scattered papers, the floor cold and slick beneath me. I reach an intersection and stop, scanning both directions. Every hallway looks the same—empty, overturned equipment, doors ajar or sealed shut.
Dead quiet.
As I turn to head left, a sound stops me.
Thump.
I freeze.
It isn’t steady enough to be machinery. Too uneven. Too… intentional.
Another thump echoes down the corridor behind me.
I turn and follow the noise, moving slow, muscles tense despite their weakness.
“Hello?” I call, my voice carrying farther than I want it to.
The response is immediate.
The banging grows louder, more frantic, metal rattling violently as I call out again. My pace quickens, heart hammering as I zero in on a sealed door ahead.
I swallow hard.
Please don’t be one of them.
I step closer—and relief crashes through me so fast my knees almost give out.
“Y/N!”
A familiar face fills the small reinforced window, eyes wide and unmistakably human.
“Kaplan!” I rush to the door, slamming my palm against it. “You have no idea how happy I am to see you!”
He grins, tired and sharp all at once. “Yeah, yeah—enough for a kiss,” he says, knocking once more for emphasis. “Now get me the hell out of here.”
“Do you have a needle?” I ask through the door. “If you do, jam it into the keycard port. Angle it until it catches—the door’ll open.”
Kaplan turns his back to me without another word. Through the narrow window, I get a look at his room. Same as mine. Bare white walls. Metal table. One-way mirror watching from the dark like an accusation.
He works faster than I did.
There’s a soft chirp, a mechanical click, and the door slides open.
Kaplan steps out with a little flourish, like he’s exiting a stage instead of a holding cell. His eyes flick over me, then he lets out a low whistle.
“Well damn,” he says. “Now that is an outfit.”
I roll my eyes. “Fuck off,” I snap—but I step forward and hug him anyway, gripping the back of his hospital shirt like I need to confirm he’s real. “Why the hell do you get underwear?”
He laughs and hugs me back, tight but brief. “Hey, don’t worry. It’s a good look on you.”
I considered punching him in the arm. But decide against it. He looks like hell too—pale, tired, a faint tremor in his hands he’s pretending isn’t there.
“Have you seen the cop?” Kaplan asks, stepping past me and peering down the hallway. “Matt? Or Shade and Rain?”
“No,” I sigh, stepping aside to let him fully out. “I woke up maybe ten—fifteen minutes ago. That’s it.”
He nods slowly. “Same. Haven’t been conscious for long either.” His jaw tightens, a scowl settling in. “Come on. Let’s find the cop.”
We start down the corridor together, checking every room we pass. Most are empty. Some look like offices. Others like prep rooms abandoned in a rush.
As I peek into one room—an office by the look of it—I spot a lab coat draped over the back of a chair. I grab it and pull it on. It hangs loose on me, but it’s better than tape and fabric.
“I guess I should tell you something,” I say casually, still scanning the room. “Matt isn’t actually a cop.”
Kaplan’s voice echoes from the next room. “Then what the hell is he?”
I step back into the hall, tugging the lab coat closed, and smile at the look on his face as he rejoins me in the hallway.
“An eco-terrorist,” I say lightly.
Kaplan scoffs, shaking his head—but he smiles despite himself. “That explains the vegetarianism.”
Our search turns up nothing.
Every empty room tightens the knot in my chest—no Matt, no Rain, no Shade. No doctors. No nurses. No orderlies. Just absence. Whatever happened here didn’t leave survivors behind to clean up.
“This place gives me the willies,” I mutter as we find the stairwell and start down toward the front entrance. “Let’s get out of here.”
Kaplan doesn’t argue.
Outside, it’s close to sundown. The sky is washed in orange and gold, the sun sinking low as it slips behind the buildings. Under any other circumstances, it might’ve been beautiful.
I don’t feel a damn thing.
The hospital’s front steps open onto a city that looks… evacuated. Not destroyed. Not burned. Just left.
No people. No movement.
The wind drifts through the street, stirring scraps of paper and plastic bags, pushing them along the pavement like tumbleweeds. Cars sit abandoned at odd angles, doors hanging open, some half-mounted on curbs as if their drivers bailed out mid-turn. It looks like traffic froze, then panicked, then vanished.
“A hurry to leave,” Kaplan murmurs.
He nudges something with his foot, then bends and lifts it. A newspaper sticks to the sole of his foot, grimy and creased.
“Look at this.”
He tilts it toward me. The headline screams in thick black print:
THE DEAD WALK!
My stomach drops.
“Horror in Raccoon—more victims dead…” I read quietly, scanning the subheading, dread pooling low and heavy in my gut.
Kaplan exhales and lets the paper fall. “Looks like the virus managed to escape.”
“Then we stay quiet,” I say, my voice low. “Real quiet.”
We head down the steps and into the street.
As we walk, the city tells its story without words.
A suitcase lies forgotten in the middle of the sidewalk, clothes spilling out. A storefront window is shattered, glass scattered across the pavement, catching the dying light. A café door hangs open, chairs knocked over inside, menus still taped to the windows advertising specials that will never be ordered.
No blood. No bodies.
Just the eerie calm after something went very, very wrong.
Our footsteps echo too loudly. Every breath feels intrusive. The wind slips between buildings, soft and steady, whispering through alleyways and broken signs. Somewhere, a loose metal awning taps faintly against brick.
Kaplan glances at me. “I don’t like this.”
“Neither do I,” I say.
Raccoon City isn’t screaming.
It’s holding its breath.