one minute, chris had been wordlessly staring down at the stack of paperwork before him. that's right, paperwork. his job had a lot more responsibilities than just punching boulders and shooting zombies.

the next minute, chris could feel himself being shoved into the escape pod, hear the sounds of piers gurgling and dying before him, the facility they were in quaking. he could still picture piers' all too pale face, discolored eyes, strange, transforming skin.

it should have been me.

the thought almost startled him. he would blink, clearing his throat before trying to focus back in on his report, only— it was true, wasn't it? has piers not sacrificed himself, it would have been chris. should have been.

by that point the report has been forgotten; abandoned. his chest felt tight. his clothes felt tight. the room felt tight. he needed out. so, he would ignore the murmurs or greetings from his colleagues, you included, jogging outside with a huff of finality.

a strange sight, indeed. chris redfield, leader of the hound wolf squad, bent over, out of breath, hands trembling against his knees. he needed a smoke. he didn't drink, but goddamn he needed a drink. anything to dull the guilt that clawed at his heart like a red-hot brand.