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Raccoon City was nothing but ashes.
You would never forget those images and everything that had led to this. The announcement that an uncontrollable outbreak had ravaged the city. The quarantine. The endless debates on TV, where scientists, politicians, and military officials—both domestic and international—were roused from their beds in the dead of night to bicker over what would be the perfect solution.
Except they never found one. Because less than twelve hours after the outbreak, the President gave the order that would resolve once and for all the problem: wipe the city off the map.
Every time you closed your eyes, you still saw those shaky images. The final offerings from brave journalists who had defied the quarantine to bring the truth to the world. The helicopters roaring overhead. The shock when the first bombs hit the ground. The blinding light, followed by total darkness.
And there you were, realizing that the last conversation you would ever have with your boyfriend had been an argument.
A stupid argument. One that happened just because you panicked. You had been exhausted, juggling a grueling job and the night classes you refused to give up. You had always dreamed of going to university, but life had taken you on a different path. Still, you clung to those few hours each week that brought you a little closer to your goal.
You were due to graduate in the spring, and Bryan and you had planned a little getaway to celebrate.
But your graduation was still a long way off, and you hadn’t realized just how much the last few months had taken a toll on your relationship. You left early and came home late, exhausted and irritable. Bryan worked long hours too, driving between regional hospitals, constantly battling traffic and arrogant doctors. When you did see each other, you barely had the energy to do anything but coexist. And argue.
The arguments were never particularly heated, stemming more from frustration than anger. Dishes left piling up. A piece of clothing ignored on the floor instead of the hamper. A dinner with friends forgotten in the daily rush. And always the same old grievances.
Bryan accused you of taking everything to heart, as if every mistake on his part were a personal affront. You, in turn, couldn't stand seeing him walk out the door the moment you couldn’t find an immediate agreement. He was unable to use his words, preferring to retreat into work rather than stay and face things.
And that was exactly what happened that evening. You had come home earlier than expected after your professor cancelled class due to the snowfall that had blanketed the region without warning. Bryan had promised to come home after his last run. A straightforward trip to St. George’s Hospital, a stop at your favorite pizzeria, and then an evening spent together watching your favorite show.
Left to your own devices until your boyfriend returned, you had occupied yourself however you could while waiting. A bit of cleaning, some reading. You had finally finished the puzzle that had been taking up space on the coffee table for weeks.
The hours ticked by, night was beginning to fall, and Bryan still hadn't returned. You had checked your shared calendar. Perhaps he had simply forgotten to mention an appointment to you? A car service to prepare for winter (which had evidently snuck up on you), or an annual vaccination? It wouldn’t be the first time.
The calendar had been empty. But it hadn’t been a wasted effort, given that it made you realize something crucial: your period was late. Not by much. A few days, a week, two at most. Easily explained by fatigue and stress. You had never been particularly regular, and under normal circumstances, you wouldn’t have worried.
These were not normal circumstances.
As a precaution, you always kept a few pregnancy tests in your medicine cabinet. An old habit born of past scares, your own and those of your friends.
The test had been positive.
And that was the moment you made the mistake that would haunt you forever. Because you hadn’t stopped to think. You hadn’t taken a moment to sit down, gather your thoughts, or take a second test.
You had picked up the phone and called Bryan.
It was a memory you tried hard to forget but couldn’t escape. You called three times before he picked up. You didn’t mince your words. I’m pregnant. No hesitation, no room for error, just what you believed to be the reality at that time. Bryan had tried to calm you down, to put off the conversation until he got back. Baby, I’m working... I know it wasn’t planned, but it’s just a run to Raccoon City. It’s just an hour round trip. I promise. We’ll talk about it when I’m home, okay? No, that’s not what I said, sweetheart…
You had wanted a reaction. You had wanted reassurance, comfort. And Bryan hadn’t been able to give it to you.
At the time, you had been frustrated, disappointed, and you had packed your bag and told Katie you were coming over for the night. Bryan had tried to stop you, but he was just a crackly voice on the phone, the apartment felt so empty, and all you could think about was that test sitting on the bathroom sink. The call cut off, , and you headed to your friend’s place.
Regret soon set in. Katie, who wasn’t Bryan’s biggest fan (a feeling he fully reciprocated), did her best to comfort you. In a rare attempt to be the voice of reason, a role usually reserved for you in your friendship, she encouraged you to take a second test.
Negative. Just like the third and the fourth, which took place after a short trip to the 24/7 grocery store down the street.
A false alarm. You’d fought with Bryan over a freaking false positive. Once again, you’d jumped to conclusions, unable to learn from your past mistakes.
You tried calling Bryan back. To Katie’s credit, she wisely kept her disapproval to herself and left you alone in bed while the phone rang. But all your attempts led you straight to his voicemail, and to the message he’d recorded all those years ago. You could hear your own laughter in the background: it was his twelfth attempt, and he was nervous—still unsure of your relationship and of himself. He’d kept that version because you were part of it, something he had admitted with great embarrassment, his cheeks red.
Then Katie appeared in the bedroom doorway, pale and trembling. "You need to see this."
Raccoon City had been placed under quarantine.
The hours that followed were a blur. You didn’t put down your phone, trying to call Bryan over and over, while Katie flipped from channel to channel, hitting the remote button the moment the images became too horrific.
You hadn’t slept all night. Katie had friends in Raccoon City. Friends who weren’t answering their phones, just like Bryan. Social media was in a frenzy, buzzing with talk of conspiracies and government foul play. Every time you opened Twitter, you saw the same kind of post: Have you seen this person? A friend, a brother, or a colleague—someone living in or visiting Raccoon City. Were they alive? Had they been evacuated before the quarantine, or were they still trapped in the city? So many questions, and no answers.
Then, the bomb.
You had felt the ground shake from Katie’s apartment. In striking contrast, the sun slowly flooded the sky with its golden glow, while Raccoon City was doomed.
And Bryan alongside the city.
You didn’t remember leaving Katie’s place, yet here you were, back in the apartment you rented with Bryan. A small two-room flat, the bare minimum, while you saved every penny to buy a home you would call your own.
Everything around you reminded you of your boyfriend. His collection of video game figurines, proudly displayed next to your puzzles and textbooks in the bookcase. The shapeless wool sweater he’d left lying on the sofa, spared from your latest cleaning spree because you loved pulling it on whenever the apartment’s radiator acted up. His scent lingered in the air, mingling with yours and the fragrance of the candle you’d picked out together on your last shopping trip.
You collapsed.
In the silence of the apartment, you let the tears fall. You hadn’t been able to stop yourself from turning on the TV, letting the news channels broadcast their harrowing images of a devastated Raccoon City, the volume so low it was barely a whisper against the sound of your weeping.
Your boyfriend was dead. Government officials were adamant: anyone who had been in Raccoon City at sunrise had perished. No evacuation had been organized, given the extreme contagion.
For the greater good, they said. A terrible loss, certainly, but one that was justified. The rest of the world needed to be protected from this strange virus that seemed to have sprung from nowhere. But rest assured: an investigation would be conducted to ensure it never happened again.
You didn’t give a fuck about those justifications. It was selfish of you, a blatant lack of empathy, but at that precise moment, you would have traded the entire world just to get Bryan back.
Your tears finally dried up as the sun went down. Only then did you realize how exhausted you were. Your eyes were burning you, your cheeks were raw from wiping them, and the onset of a migraine was slicing through your skull.
You rose on shaky legs and dragged yourself to the small kitchen. You poured a glass of water and swallowed an aspirin. When that offered you no immediate relief, you splashed water on your face. You probably ought to eat something, having had nothing since the cold pizza Katie had kindly given you last night. But the mere thought of opening the fridge to find a bite to eat exhausted you and made bile rise in your throat.
You went back to the living room to curl up on the sofa once more. You closed your eyes. Perhaps you would drift off like this, and when you woke up, it would all turn out to be a hideous nightmare. A figment of your twisted imagination.
You felt yourself slipping into a state somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. You remained aware of your body, of the blanket shielding your sensitive skin from the sofa’s rough fabric, and of the headache throbbing slowly. Your mind was drifting away, conjuring up nonsensical images and scenes inspired by the horrors you witnessed.
And amidst everything, a key turned in the lock.
Your eyes snapped open, and a sudden wave of dizziness seized you. Was that a figment of imagination? You held your breath and strained to listen.
A sound in the entryway. A dull thud. A sigh. Then a voice you thought you’d never hear again. "Baby?"
You had sprung up without even realizing it, ignoring the fatigue that made you stagger.
There, as if conjured from your imagination, standing in the narrow hallway connecting the door to the living room, was Bryan.
It was him, all right. You recognized his slightly stooped silhouette, his wind-tousled hair, the unkempt beard consuming his cheeks, and the bags under his eyes, more pronounced than ever. There was even the small silver hoop glinting in his ear, a memento from a bet made with a friend five years ago, one he had never wanted to remove and that you liked to tug on in intimacy.
But his appearance... He looked as though he’d been dragged through Hell. His courier jacket and coat were stained with substances you couldn't quite identify, making the fabric stiff as cardboard. His wool sweater was torn at the collar, and the plaid shirt you were certain you’d seen him put on the day before was gone. His trousers were more or less intact, but he had lost his shoes; his once-yellow socks were now a dull gray.
And was that blood staining his face?!
Bryan’s weary, raspy voice broke through your horrified stare. "I’m home, baby. Just like I promised."
That was the moment the dam broke. You couldn't say which of you had moved first, but you met halfway, falling into each other’s arms. An abominable stench clung to your boyfriend, a mix of rotting carrion and neglected trash, but you ignored it. You were simply too relieved to be holding him close. You buried your face in his collar and felt his lips brush against the top of your head, then your temples, as he whispered: "I’m here, I’m here, I’m here..."
"I thought... I thought I’d lost you. I saw it on TV... Raccoon City..."
"Shh, it’s okay. It’s over."
You pulled back just enough to glare at him. "I’m not the one who needs reassuring!"
"Just let me hold you close, sweetheart."
You let him do it without protest. You needed to feel him against you, warm and alive, just as much as he did. You could feel the tremors running through Bryan’s body. The only reason he was still standing was because you were acting as counterweight.
A pang of worry tightened your chest. "Bryan, you don’t look so good," you said anxiously. "You’re shaking."
A weary laugh escaped him. "Yeah, I’m not in great shape. I’ve had... I’ve had a hell of a shitty night."
"You left yesterday morning. That’s almost thirty-six hours ago."
"Okay, a shitty night and a shitty day."
"Are you hurt? All this blood..." You stopped, unable to finish the question.
Bryan planted another kiss on your forehead, his lips ice-cold, as if an instinct drove him to soothe you the moment you started to get agitated. "It... It isn’t mine. I’m fine."
"What happened?"
"I don’t even know where to start." A fresh whiff rose from Bryan’s hair as he shook his head, and you could no longer ignore the issue.
"With a shower, for instance. You look like you’ve been rolling around in the gutter."
Bryan didn’t argue. He slowly loosened his embrace, with a reluctance you shared. You felt as though the slightest draft might make him collapse and scatter, like a trail of ash in the wind, leaving you back at square one: alone.
You nudged him toward the bathroom anyway. Watching him stagger like a drunken sailor on a ship’s deck, you followed close behind, determined to catch him if he started to faint. There was no way you were going to lose your boyfriend for good, after everything, just because he’d slipped and cracked his forehead open like an egg in the shower.
But Bryan blocked the doorway with a limp arm. "I… I’d rather you didn’t have to see this."
"I don’t think there’s a single part of you I don’t know by heart, Bryan."
A shadow passed over his face, clouding his blue eyes. "No, darling. Not this time."
You didn’t press the issue and backed away, though you felt relieved when he didn’t close the door behind him.
Night had fallen by now. You turned on the bedroom lights out of habit, then switched them all off, except for the small bedside lamp you kept for reading, so as not to disturb Bryan in his exhaustion. While the water kept running in the bathroom, you sat on the edge of the bed, fidgeting with your fingers and waiting for him.
You lost track of time before the tap was finally turned off and silence settled over the apartment once more.
You looked up as footsteps approached.
Now that the grime and blood were washed away, Bryan looked more exhausted than ever. His hair, tousled from the towel, fell over his forehead and ears, casting shadows across his dark-circled eyes. His cheeks were gaunt, his lips chapped.
He had pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a faded T-shirt, his usual sleepwear.
"What the fuck is that," you exclaimed. You had just noticed his left arm, held slightly against his stomach as if he were trying to protect it—or hide it. You saw the black veins crisscrossing his pale skin and the raw, angry wound standing out on his forearm.
Bryan followed your gaze and winced. "Yeah, about that... I guess I should explain."
And so he did, in the dim light of your bedroom. He explained how he had been sent to Raccoon City. How, just as the bad weather cut off your call, he had accidentally struck a woman with his car. How she had chased him, after killing Sheriff Wilson, all the way to that farmhouse.
Then the escape through the tunnel. The little girl in the RV; her fear and distress when the mutation took hold of her.
"She bit me," Bryan said in a hollow voice. "She… she didn’t want to, but she wasn’t herself anymore. And I shot her. Her head… it just…" He broke off, and you guided him toward the mattress, urging him to sit beside you and lean against you. His hair now smelled of your shampoo rather than sweat, and you combed through the strands as he resumed his story.
He described the hell Raccoon City had become. His journey to the hospital through the sewers and the transformed streets. His trek from the hospital to the Umbrella lab, and the discovery that he wasn’t carrying an organ, but an antidote. How the scientists had taken pity on him as the mutation began to boil in his blood, administering a dose before urging him to flee before the army sealed off the city.
His eyes were distant as he described braving Raccoon City in reverse, slipping past the monsters. He had walked without stopping, despite the bombs going off in the background, navigating by road signs and avoiding main routes so his appearance wouldn’t raise any alarm.
"I don’t know what was in that antidote, but I felt like I could walk for days."
"And where would you have gone in your state?"
"Home, sweetheart. Back to you."
You felt fresh tears welling up, which you quickly blinked away. "And now?" you asked.
"I… I don’t know."
"Raccoon City was destroyed."
"Yeah."
"The… the mutation, the virus—whatever it was—has been contained."
"Apparently."
"You’re cured."
"Supposedly."
"Bryan…"
He shook his head, inadvertently breaking your hold on his head. He quickly grabbed your hand with his uninjured fingers, as if he couldn't bear to be apart from you for even a moment.
"I feel like I’ve changed, baby. Maybe their antidote isn’t so miraculous after all."
"You haven’t changed; you’re traumatized. What you went through… No one should ever have to endure that. Especially not you. But you’re still the same man. The same Bryan."
"You say that like I’m a hero. A hero doesn’t kill kids."
Bryan had never been the most confident man. He tried his best to keep up a brave front, but the last few hours had drained him completely, leaving him exposed and raw.
And you wanted only one thing: to reassure him. To make him see what you saw in him, what he couldn't perceive himself, especially tonight, in light of the horrors he had endured.
You shifted on the mattress until you were facing him. You touched his cheek, urging him to turn toward you. He let himself be handled, and you sought out his gaze, locking eyes with his blue irises. They glistened under the lamp’s yellow glow. He looked so tired…
"Who’s talking about heroes?" you asked. "You’re a survivor. And a victim, just like that little girl. There was nothing you could do for her. She was doomed, and you know it. You say you killed her, but the real culprit is that virus. It wasn’t your fault."
You searched for the right words, hesitating before continuing:
"And as far as I’m concerned, you’re my hero. You delivered the antidote despite the dangers. You survived the mutation. You made it back. You came back to me."
Bryan didn’t answer. He simply looked at you in silence before slowly nodding and letting his chin drop to his chest, his bangs hiding his face. Your heart tightened.
"Come on, I think it’s time for bed."
Bryan didn’t protest as you helped him out of his T-shirt, urged him to climb into bed under the covers, and told him to lie down.
However, he let out a low sound of protest when you started to sit up. "Where are you going?" he asked, his voice laced with panic.
"Nowhere," you reassured him. "I’m just turning off the light."
Bryan remained tense until the click of the switch echoed through the room and you joined him in the middle of the bed. You started to adjust your pillow, but your boyfriend didn’t give you the chance; he grabbed you by the waist and pulled you toward his side. "What’s going on?" you asked.
"I... I need to feel you close to me. Can I... Can I hold you?"
"You don’t need to ask, baby." You snuggled up against Bryan, letting him wrap himself around your back as if he were trying to absorb you, to hide you away from the outside world. You closed your eyes, savoring the heat radiating from him and warming the otherwise icy bed.
Bryan started when you grasped the hand he had rested on your hip, the one still bearing the marks of the early stages of mutation. "Shh, it’s okay..." you murmured.
"Babe, you shouldn't touch it," he protested.
"Is it contagious?"
"No, but it’s disgusting."
"Nothing about you is disgusting."
To emphasize your point, you traced your finger along his forearm, following what you imagined to be the path of the blackened veins. You carefully avoided the bite mark. You didn't want to hurt him or aggravate the wound.
It took a moment but Bryan ended up relaxing, a sigh escaping him and fading away along with his protests. You felt his breath tickle the back of your neck before his lips, and then his nose, brushed against your nape as he buried his face in the crook of your shoulder.
"There was a moment in Raccoon City when I realized I was going to lose everything," he started. "My life, of course, but mostly you. Us. The life we’d built together, and the one we still had yet to build."
He swallowed hard. "I was a coward. I should have been more present, been there for you. Given you what you needed instead of running away. I... I promised myself that if I made it out, I’d do everything in my power to protect you. To protect you both."
Without breaking your hold, he slid his arm down until his palm grazed your stomach. When you realized what he was getting at, your stomach knotted and a wave of intense nausea washed over you. "Bryan…"
"Hmm?"
"About that… I was wrong, damn it."
"What do you mean?"
You took a deep breath, trying to scrape together the last bit of courage from your depleted reserves. "I’m not pregnant. I… my period was late, I freaked out, and I got a false positive. All the other tests were negative. And instead of thinking it through, of checking before calling you, I acted like a total bitch. You were right; I take everything to heart, and I always rush headfirst into the worst-case scenario. We fought over nothing. I know it’s not enough, but I’m sorry. Truly."
Bryan didn’t answer for a moment, and you bit your lip. He’d gone through Hell thinking he was coming back to a pregnant girlfriend, only for you to tell him you’d… what? Lost your mind? Imagined things?
"So there’s no baby?" he asked.
"No, there isn’t."
Bryan hummed. "And would you want there to be one?"
You had prepared yourself for every possibility: anger, disappointment, disgust. But not for a question like that. And certainly not for the hope you could hear rising in his tone. "Bryan?"
"I… I’m not asking for an answer from you right now. I don’t even think you should give one. But I’ve had time to think about it. I freaked out when you mentioned it because I could only imagine the worst-case scenario. I didn’t stop to think about what it actually meant."
"Meaning?"
"That you wanted to build a future with me."
"Of course I do, Bryan. That’s all I want. Now that I’ve found you again, I’m not letting go."
What you’d intended as a touch of humor fell flat, sounding strangely like a promise. You felt Bryan’s lips curve into a smile. "I could say the same," he said.
"So, about the baby…"
This time, you managed to make him laugh. "Not tonight, sweetheart."
"You pervert—that’s not what I meant!"
"Yeah, right."
You sighed, and Bryan slid his ankle between yours, using the new hold to wrap his body more tightly around yours—his way of apologizing for teasing you.
"Seriously. If it happens, it happens. I’ll be there, and I’ll stay there. No more running away. Not without you," he promised.
"And I’ll make an effort. I know I’m not always the most rational person, and you don’t deserve me constantly flying off the handle."
"You wouldn’t be you if you didn’t jump straight to the worst conclusions."
"It’s not exactly my most attractive trait," you admitted.
"I don’t care. Like a great sage once said, nothing about you is disgusting."
"You’re a suck-up."
"Nah, I’m just in love," he countered.
You couldn’t answer, too busy smiling like a lovestruck teenager. But wasn’t that sort of what you were? Not a teenager, but definitely just as in love with Bryan as he was with you.
"But, babe…", he started.
"Yeah?"
"If you could avoid hiding out at Katie’s place every time we argued, that would be great."
This time, you were the one who laughed out loud. "She’s not that bad," you defended.
"She hates me."
"The feeling’s mutual."
"No, I tolerate her."
"I don’t want to know what’ll happen the day you run out of patience."
"She’s your friend, and you like her. I’ll always have patience for the things you love," he promised.
You turned your head just enough for Bryan’s nose to brush against your cheek, then your own nose. You pressed your forehead against his, your breaths mingling. "And if I tell you every day, every hour, that I love you—will you have enough patience with yourself?"
"Baby..."
You didn't give Bryan time to protest. You closed the last few centimeters separating you to share your first kiss since reuniting. Bryan returned it with a sigh of pleasure. You could almost feel sleep washing over him, and his struggle to fight it off just to stay with him.
You pitied him, thinking of the ordeals he’d endured to find you, so you broke the kiss. A groan of disappointment escaped him, twisting your insides in a way you made sure to ignore. It wasn't the time. You’d certainly indulge in that later, but it wasn't what Bryan needed right now.
"Sleep, my love. We’ll talk more tomorrow, okay?"
Bryan nodded, stealing one last quick kiss before resting his head back on the pillow. You counted roughly three seconds before the first snore escaped him.
It took you just as long to join him in Morpheus' arms, lulled by his presence and the promises you had exchanged in the dark—solemn vows, every one of them.