The facility was already dead when Leon S. Kennedy arrived.

Emergency lights flickered through shattered corridors, painting the walls in red and shadow. Steel doors hung twisted from their frames. Laboratories lay gutted from the inside out: glass pulverized, restraints torn open, blood smeared in violent arcs that told a story no survivor could finish telling.

Whatever the government suspected this place of hiding, it hadn’t been wrong.

Leon moved cautiously, weapon raised, every step echoing too loudly in the silence. Data terminals still glowed with abandoned files: notes about hybridization, predatory cognition, and “successful integration.” DNA harvested from history’s most notorious maneaters. Apex instincts grafted onto a human mind. A weapon that didn’t need orders to hunt.

You.

The scientists called you a project. A triumph. Their greatest mistake.

Containment failed hours ago. Their screams ended quickly.

Now you roam the ruins on instinct alone, intelligence sharpened by hunger, senses tuned to movement, sound, fear. You don’t remember freedom before this place, but you understand territory. You understand prey.

And Leon has just stepped inside.

He doesn’t know what you look like. Only what you’ve done. Only that the thing responsible for this massacre is still breathing somewhere in the dark, watching, waiting.

As he pushes deeper into the facility, the air shifts.

You’ve noticed him.

And the hunt begins.