Chapter Text
The T-virus caused flesh decay, destroyed intelligence, and reanimated dead bodies into aggressive zombies, starting the chain of outbreaks.
In the middle of Raccoon City, the Umbrella Corporation was designing the ultimate weapon, flying too close to the sun.
12 scientists stared inside the empty white room, now coated red by the mutilated creature inside, clipboards in hand.
The "creature" was a man named Stewart. Months before, he lay in an alley behind the neon lounge, where drunk couples stumbled out giggling and slurring nonsense as they futilely waved for passing cabs. A man in his forties leaned against the rough, wet brick, hurling onto the pavement, his vomit splattering wetly onto the already filthy cement. Pink and yellow neon cast the stranger's shadow over Stewart, who watched through a glazed, heavy stupor. He was high, though the feeling was a pale shadow of what it used to be—no longer that warm, euphoric wave drifting between consciousness and oblivion. Now he used it simply to breathe, keeping his guts from twisting and cramping as if trying to claw out of his stomach.
The man caught his breath, groaned, and spat one final glob of bile onto the pavement. Turning his head, he looked Stewart up and down, his lip curling in disgust.
"What are you staring at, fucking Junkie."
Stewart stayed silent and curled onto the abandoned sofa cushion he called a bed, shutting his eyes against the unrelenting rain that soaked through his clothes and numbed his hands and feet. The man laughed, his heavy boots slapping the wet pavement as he closed the distance.
"Oh, now you're hiding. Sit up, loser, I was talking to you."
A sudden kick drove Stewart's head hard against the brick, followed by a heavy boot slamming into his back. He curled tighter against the wall, shielding his head and neck from the blows, until a security guard rushed in, seized the attacker by his leather collar, and dragged him back to the main sidewalk.
"Get your shit together, man. Get out of here."
Stewart looked up at his defender. The guard caught his gaze, held it in silent hesitation for a moment, and then turned and walked away into the rain.
Stewart lay there in the dark, and despite the throbbing ache in his skull, exhaustion pulled him under.
It was noon when they found him. He never forgot the way they stood over him in absolute silence until he jolted awake, scrambling to his feet only to collapse back onto his knees.
Both wore dark suits, looking as though they had walked straight out of *The Matrix*. Given that it was October, Stewart briefly wondered if it was already Halloween. The woman pressed a handkerchief over her mouth as the man spoke.
"Sir, we're sorry to bother you, but we are looking for a candidate for a position which has opened up."
Stewart slouched back against the wall, exhausted. "What are you talking about?" His head began to pound, and he buried his face against his knees to shut out the blinding daylight.
"Sir, we're looking for candidates for medical studies. Our intention is to explore alternatives to opiates, and we intend to provide Diamorphine to individuals with high tolerances."
Stewart kept his head down. "What the fuck is Diamorphine?" he groaned.
The woman cleared her throat politely before calmly saying, "It's more commonly known as Heroine."
That made him look up, the pain momentarily forgotten. "Seriously? Is this real . . . Are you real?" Hope flared in his chest, swiftly tangled with suspicion.
People in tailored suits didn't wander down piss-stained alleys just to hand out miracles. They smelled like clean fabric and sterile air, not the sour damp of the streets or the bleach of a free clinic. Everything about the offer screamed danger—the woman’s delicate handkerchief shielding her from his stench, the man’s stiff, rehearsed delivery, and the sheer absurdity of free pharmaceutical heroin.
Yet the deep, hollow ache in Stewart already growing. He knew what the coming night held: the gut-wrenching agony of withdrawal tearing him apart from the inside out. Out here, he was dying anyway—slowly, painfully, and completely alone. If they were selling a trap, at least it came with a roof and the only medicine that could make his nervous system stop screaming. In the warped calculus of his addiction, a dangerous chance at relief was better than a slow suicide in the gutter.
Keith blinked blankly, at a loss for words. His partner, Kiana, watched his hesitation for only a second before spinning sharply on her heel, her expression unreadable behind dark sunglasses. Keith hurried after her. "What are you doing? He's the perfect subject."
She scoffed with a dismissive laugh. "Well, isn't that sweet, just wait, that junkie wo—"
Stewart scrambled to his feet. "Wait, I'll do it!" he shouted, stumbling frantically after them while hitching up his sagging jeans.
Kiana paused and smiled. "Wonderful," she murmured, casting a sly glance at Keith over the rim of her glasses.
They brought him to an underground laboratory facility. Days blurred into weeks, and weeks stretched into months. Dave, the lead researcher, initially refused to accept an addict.
"It would taint the results of the experiment. We only have so much T-virus, we can't waste it on some homeless tweaker."
Kiana fixed him with a cold glare. Despite her small stature, her presense was unmistakable. "People are starting to notice. You haven't seen the missing person posters? If this comes out, the Umbrella Corp is as good as over, right along with your career. I hope you like prison."
Dave scowled, trapped by the truth of her words. If the facility’s illicit operations were exposed, his life was finished: prison, divorce, and never seeing his children again. He was bound to the project by a knot he couldn't undo.
Over the following months, they systematically prepared Stewart into the ideal subject. At first, they provided heroin as promised, but soon began rationing his doses, tapering him off with agonizing speed. The withdrawal was pure torment: blinding headaches, feverish sweats, violent cramps, and chills that made every second feel like dying. An intravenous drip of "nutritional substance" kept him alive just enough to prevent starvation. Then, before his body could recover—the moment the drug had entirely cleared his system—they administered a dose of the T-virus.
The pathogen flooded his bloodstream.
Behind the observation glass, the scientists recorded every minute shift. At first, nothing appeared to happen. But gradually, within 3 hours, his humanity dissolved, leaving behind an entirely different creature.