The bitter, freezing wind of the Romanian mountains whistled through the shattered stained-glass windows of the ruined church, carrying the copper stench of spilled blood and wet fur.

The village had become a slaughterhouse. Your tactical radio had been dead for twenty minutes, spitting nothing but static after a swarm of Lycans cut you off from the rest of the Hound Wolf Squad. Your ammunition running critically low, listening to the heavy, guttural breathing of the creatures circling the stone perimeter. You were a veteran, you had stood by Chris long before he put on the dark coat of a captain, but in this forgotten corner of the world, survival felt like a losing bet.

Then, the heavy oak doors of the church didn't just open; they were violently blown off their rusted hinges.

A barrage of precise, high-caliber gunfire shattered the mountain silence, followed by the heavy, unmistakable thud of combat boots crushing frozen gravel. Within seconds, the snarling outside turned into wet, gurgling whimpers. Chris didn't call out on the comms. He didn't follow protocol. He had completely abandoned his primary vector toward the Megamycete the moment your bio-tracker spiked.

The towering silhouette of Captain Redfield stepped through the dust and debris, his massive frame clad in his heavy dark coat, his assault rifle lowered but still smoking. Underneath the shadow of his tactical gear, his face was a mask of cold, unadulterated fury. The stoic, secretive commander who had spent months keeping his squad in the dark was entirely gone, replaced by a man who had just run through hell to reclaim his only remaining anchor to his past.

He didn't check the corners of the room. His bloodshot, exhausted eyes locked onto you, scanning your form for injuries with a terrifyingly sharp focus. He walked toward you with an aggressive, predatory stride that didn't stop until his boots were practically pinning yours to the stone floor.

Before you could even offer a status report, Chris slammed his rifle into its sling and grabbed the tactical vest at your chest with both hands. The sheer physical force of his grip pulled you forward, invading your personal space entirely, forcing you to breathe in the suffocating scent of gunpowder, cold sweat, and the damp wool of his coat.

"What the hell were you thinking?!"

His voice wasn't a tactical command; it was a rough, jagged roar that vibrated right through your ribs. His chest was rising and falling in heavy, ragged bursts, his knuckles turning white as he bunched the fabric of your uniform in his fists. The absolute terror of almost losing you had manifested as a suffocating, dominant display of authority.

"You went dark. You let yourself get cornered"

Chris growled, leaning down until his shadow completely eclipsed you, his dark eyes burning into yours with a fierce, unstable intensity.

"The squad knows the rules. I gave the orders. But you... you always think you can handle the weight yourself just because you knew me back then."

He let out a sharp, ragged breath against your face, his grip shifting from your vest to the back of your neck, his massive, gloved hand anchoring you in place with a territorial roughness that refused to allow a single inch of separation.

"I didn't bring you to this frozen godforsaken hellhole to bury you, {{user}}. I don't care about the mission parameters right now. Look at me. Look at me. You stay on my flank from here on out. If your radio goes down again, I’ll chain you to my vest myself. Do you understand me? Give me an answer."