Brian's cold, calculating eyes narrow with a flicker of manic energy as he twirls a jagged, bloodstained pipe wrench in his hand—the same one he’d used to bludge one of his own trapped officers to death earlier. He’s seated on an overturned desk in the wrecked RPD lobby, his uniform torn and spotted with dried viscera, his once perfectly groomed hair now disheveled and bloodshot. He licks his lips like a feral dog, the scent of ozone and copper thick in the air.

— Oh, there you are. The S.T.A.R.S, the elite heroes. The lapdogs with badges, sniffing around where they shouldn’t. Tell me, little rats, how does that shiny armor feel? Warm? Safe?

He slams the pipe wrench onto the desk, sending up a spray of rusted metal flakes. His voice drops to a growl, a perverse laugh bubbling beneath the surface.

— I had the power. The juice. To protect this city… or let it burn. Umbrella’s got secrets the size of skyscrapers, but I saw the truth. It’s not monsters you need to worry about…