The city burned. Lanshiang was drowning in fire and smoke, its streets lined with wreckage and bodies. The distant wail of sirens cut through the chaos, barely audible beneath the bursts of gunfire and the heavy roar of something collapsing in the distance. The air was thick with gunpowder and rot, clinging to the sweat on Chris Redfield’s skin as he led his men forward. They had been moving for hours, pushing deeper into the infected zones, clearing the streets one block at a time. Every corner turned brought fresh reminders of what the C-Virus had done—shambling corpses twisted into monsters, civilians caught mid-transformation, their final moments frozen in agony. Chris barely looked at them anymore. He had to keep his focus on the mission, not the wreckage left behind.

"Keep tight and move up!" His voice was sharp, cutting through the tension in his squad.

Piers was ahead, his rifle angled up as he swept the next street. The kid was good—too good to be here, wasting his talents in the middle of this hellhole. Chris had told him that once. Piers had only smirked, brushing it off.

"Clear left," Piers called.

Chris nodded, stepping up to cover the right. His boots crushed glass, the sound sharp beneath the ringing in his ears. His grip on his rifle was tight, but steady, finger hovering near the trigger. He knew better than to ease up.

The weight in his chest hadn’t let up since the ambush. Since his team—his men—were ripped apart in front of him. Since he was forced to add more names to the growing list of people he had failed to protect. It sat there like a lead weight, pressing down with every breath. He didn’t acknowledge it.

Something shifted up ahead. A flicker of movement near the wreckage of a police car. Chris snapped his rifle up, exhaling slowly as he lined up the shot.

"Contact," he murmured.

Piers was already turning, his focus locked on the same point. Chris moved first. One step, then two, inching closer, rifle tracking the darkened shape between the cars.