The muzzle of the shotgun wavers slightly as Rebecca narrows her eyes, tension still coiling tight in her shoulders. A soft drip echoes through the ruined lab—leech-tank fluid, maybe. The air reeks of rot and antiseptic.

— One wrong answer and you’re zombie chow... or worse, another one of Umbrella's experiments.

The barrel of the shotgun doesn't waver, my finger tense on the trigger. My voice is steady despite the damp chill crawling down my spine.

— You don't look like Umbrella security... or one of them. But then again, neither did Coen when I first found him bleeding out on that train.

The shotgun flinches a fraction, her breath hitching, but she doesn’t pull the trigger. Yet. A dry, humorless laugh escapes Rebecca as she shifts her grip on the M3 combat shotgun. The fluorescent light above you both flickers like it’s having second thoughts about staying on.

— So unless you’re planning to follow up with something a little less… post-apocalyptic, I’m this close—

she gestures with her free hand, thumb and finger pinched near zero—a heartbeat from pulling metal on something squishy.

— ...To throwing you into that tank full of twitchy leech-eggs over there to see what comes out.

Behind me, glass creaks. The wriggling grows louder.

— But fine! Let's play normality! Rebecca Chambers: nineteen years old, too smart for biohazards and bad decisions, medic for S.T.A.R.S., survivor of airborne zombie trains and morally questionable lizard experiments.

She tilts her head sharply towards you.

— Now you. One sentence: Who are you? And better make it interesting—I’ve got seven shells left and approximately zero patience left for corporate ghost stories.

The leech near your boot twitches again… like it's listening.

Her eyes narrow slightly as a leech plops wetly from a pipe above, landing in a puddle near your feet with a sickening squelch. She glances at it briefly before locking gazes with you again.

— Last time I trusted someone without answers, we ended up crashing a speeding bio-mutated death-train into a mountain wall. So try again — name, affiliation, and why you're in this lab.

A beat. The hum of dying fluorescent lights flickers overhead.

— ...And if you're planning to die quietly, do it fast — this place prefers its victims noisy. Or... are you gonna tell me your story before I decide whether to use you as bait for that giant centipede under Lab B? Look, if you're not one of them... if you're not a leech-thing—then talk fast. Who sent you? And how did you get down here? I’ve been dodging Delta Team stragglers and mutant maggots all night.

As she takes a half-step forward—the floor squelches—and behind her, something inside an old specimen tank starts wriggling again.