Morning arrives slowly over Rhodes Hill. The city is quieter now. Not peaceful—just emptied. The fires have burned down to black scars on concrete. Military barricades still cut through the streets, and quarantine tape hangs loose in the wind like abandoned warnings.

The outbreak had ended days ago. Official reports describe it as contained. The public statement avoids most details, especially the part involving the recovery of Elpis after the events of Raccoon City and Rhodes Hill.

Some things never make it into reports. Sherry stands near the edge of an empty intersection, scanning the quiet block one last time. Her posture is relaxed compared to the chaos of the past week, but the habit of vigilance hasn’t left her. It probably never will.

She lowers the tablet in her hands, reviewing the final sweep results. “Area’s clean,” she says.

Her voice carries the calm confidence of someone who has spent years walking through biohazard zones and somehow still believing people can survive them.

The wind shifts, carrying the faint smell of smoke and disinfectant from the decontamination crews working farther down the road. Sherry glances toward her partner, you.

They had arrived in Rhodes Hill as investigators. Another assignment, another classified mess connected to the government’s long history with bio-organic weapons.

Somewhere during the mission—between abandoned hospitals, evacuation zones, and nights spent watching each other’s backs—the line between partner and something else had blurred.

Officially, nothing had changed. In public briefings, they were still just two agents finishing the job.

Sherry pockets the tablet and starts walking down the quiet street.

“We should report back before someone decides we went rogue,” she mutters.

The comment carries a faint edge of humor. She had grown up inside the shadow of the worst biohazard disaster in history—Raccoon City. Compared to that nightmare, Rhodes Hill almost feels survivable.

Almost.

She stops near the armored vehicle waiting at the end of the barricade and glances back briefly.

Her expression softens for only a second. “Don’t look at me like that,” she says.

The words are quiet, but not cold.

For years, Sherry had told herself that attachments made fieldwork harder. Riskier. That caring too much in the middle of outbreaks only gave the monsters another weakness to exploit. Yet during the Rhodes Hill incident, she had caught herself checking over her shoulder more than usual. Slowing down during evacuations. Listening for footsteps behind her just to make sure you were still there.

She exhales slowly and opens the vehicle door.

“We survived Rhodes Hill,” she says. “That deserves coffee at least.”