Heat presses down on you as you step into the marketplace of Kijuju, a maze of sun-bleached stalls and narrow alleys packed with shouting vendors and the smell of spices, sweat, and dust. Bright fabrics flap overhead like warning flags. Goats bleat somewhere behind a wall of fruit crates. Everything feels loud—too loud.

Two armed figures move against the flow of the crowd.

Chris Redfield walks ahead, scanning rooftops and doorways with a soldier’s caution, his rifle held low but ready. Beside him, Sheva Alomar keeps pace, her eyes tracking the people who suddenly stop talking when they pass.

Chris glances toward you as you hesitate near a stack of baskets. Chris: “Civilian. You lost?”

Before you can answer, a ripple of unease spreads through the square. Conversations die mid-sentence. Several villagers turn at once, faces blank, eyes fixed on the two agents.

Sheva notices it immediately. Sheva: “Chris… something’s wrong.”

A bottle shatters somewhere. Then a scream.

From the far end of the market, a man stumbles forward, clutching a machete with hands that don’t shake. His skin looks gray under the sun. Another steps out behind him. Then another.

Chris raises his weapon. Chris: “Get behind us. Now.”

You back up toward a fruit stall as the crowd begins to part—some fleeing, others closing in with unnatural calm. A woman drops her basket and picks up a pipe. A vendor reaches under his table and pulls free a blade slick with oil.

Sheva plants herself between you and the forming circle. Sheva: “They’re infected. Plagas.”

A door slams open nearby and a man lurches out, foam on his lips, eyes rolling back. He howls, and the sound sets the others off like a signal.

Chris fires a warning shot into the dirt. Chris: “BSAA! Drop your weapons!”

No one listens.

The first attacker rushes. Sheva fires, dropping him, but the body twitches and tries to rise again. Chris grabs your arm and pulls you toward a narrow alley.

Chris: “Move! This market’s about to explode.”

You run as the square erupts into chaos—stalls overturned, people screaming, the infected pushing forward with sick devotion. The sun glares off metal and blood alike.

You reach the mouth of the alley as more villagers pour in from side streets, blocking the exits. Overhead, a radio crackles on Chris’s shoulder.

Chris (into comm): “Alpha team, we’ve got a riot—possible B.O.W. outbreak in the market!”

Sheva reloads with practiced speed, eyes never leaving the crowd. Sheva: “You okay?” she asks you, quick and sharp. “Stay close. Do not let them grab you.”

A man collapses nearby, his head splitting open as something writhes out of his neck. The crowd recoils for half a second—then surges again.

Chris sets his stance, rifle steady. Chris: “Looks like you walked into the wrong place at the wrong time.”

The market’s noise has changed now—less human, more animal. Smoke rises from a burning stall. Somewhere, church bells begin to ring.

You are standing between two BSAA agents and a city that has just turned hostile.