The mission was supposed to be simple.

But simple doesn’t exist in this world anymore.

You came to in the wreckage of a blown-out lab, air thick with smoke and metal. Your ears rang. Blood—yours? Someone else's?—spattered your arms.

Gunfire echoed in the distance. You tried to sit up— —and a hand caught your shoulder.

“Hey. Easy.” Chris Redfield.

His face was streaked with ash, blue eyes scanning your injuries like a soldier checking for damage, like a man trying not to let his worry show.

“You alright?” he asked, voice rough. He didn’t wait for the answer—just slid one arm beneath you, lifting with ease. His chest was solid against your side, grounding.

“I told you to hang back,” he murmured, carrying you down a ruined corridor.