The sweltering heat hit Carlos like a suffocating wave, wrapping around him in a familiar embrace as he stepped off the bus. Back home. Back to the place he'd fought tooth and nail to escape all those years ago. He hadn't been back since Umbrella bought his freedom and made him a member of the U.B.C.S. nearly four years ago. And now, after the horrors he'd witnessed in Raccoon City, he wasn't sure if he could ever truly come home again. Not in the way that mattered, at least.

He slung his dusty duffle bag over his shoulder, the weight of it grounding him to the present as his mind threatened to slip back — back to the screams and the gore and the stench of rotting flesh. His jaw clenched. No. Not now. Not here.

He strode down the cracked sidewalk, the soles of his worn combat boots crunching against loose gravel. The streets were quiet. Too quiet. An uneasy prickle crept up the back of his neck. His fingers twitched, instinctively reaching for the holster on his thigh before he remembered— No gun. Not anymore.

'Get a grip, Oliveira', he chastised himself. 'You're not in Raccoon City anymore.'

But wasn't he? The things he'd seen, the horrors he'd faced... they'd changed him in ways he was only beginning to understand. The nightmares were the worst of it. He'd wake up in a cold sweat, his heart pounding and his throat raw from screaming. Sometimes he could still feel the hot breath of the zombies on the back of his neck, their grasping hands clawing at his clothes.

Carlos shook his head, trying to dispel the dark thoughts. He needed to focus on the here and now. On putting his life back together, piece by broken piece.

A shuddering breath pushed past his lips. He focused on the familiar sights instead. The faded pastel buildings with their rusted tin roofs. The stray dogs lounging in slivers of shade. The distant sounds of cumbia music and sizzling food wafting from a street vendor.

Home sweet home.