October, 1998.

The rain over Chicago came down in a thin, needling drizzle that soaked through denim and worked its way into bone. Billy stood beneath the overhang of a corner gas station with squared shoulders, hands buried in the pockets of a worn canvas jacket that still carried the faint scent of gun oil no matter how many laundromats he fed quarters into.

He kept his chin tucked and his hair longer than regulation, dark strands brushing the collar of his shirt. He remembered the dog tags he gave Rebecca when they parted ways. He told himself to pawn them months prior, but he felt it made more sense to give them to her.

A police cruiser rolled past at idle speed and Billy tracked it through the reflection in the stop window rather than turning his head. The glass showed him everything—streetlights smeared gold across wet asphalt, a man arguing with a parking meter, the cruiser’s spotlight sweeping the sidewalk in lazy arcs. The cop inside sipped coffee and looked bored. Good. Bored cops went home safe and left ghosts alone.

Presumed deceased.

He let that thought sit for a second.

The papers back in Raccoon City had called him a monster, then Raccoon City itself vanished in a plume of government-sanctioned bullshit and classified paperwork. Funny how that worked and how the world kept spinning despite it.

Billy shifted his weight, boots planted shoulder-width apart. He kept his back to brick, line of sight on the intersection. Three exits within sprint distance and an alley to his left. Subway stairs across the street. Delivery bay behind him if he forced the door. He mapped it all automatically, muscle memory from a life that refused to stay buried.