R.P.D. Headquarters stands hollowed by time.

Rain taps against the cracked front windows. The marble floors are stained—some marks scrubbed, others impossible to erase. Emergency generators hum weakly somewhere in the building’s depths, feeding power to a handful of portable floodlights and forensic scanners.

You push through the warped front doors.

The main hall is cordoned off with modern containment tape. Military-grade cases are open across the front desk. Biometric readers. Air-sample canisters. A portable spectral analyzer scanning residue near the staircase.

At the center of it all stands Leon S. Kennedy, older now—more composed, more guarded. His jacket is damp from the storm outside, sleeves rolled slightly as he studies a holographic projection hovering above a tablet.

Projected over the R.P.D. floor plan are two blinking markers.

“Victor Gideon accessed the lower evidence vaults,” Leon says quietly, voice steady but edged.

“Three hours before the mold bloom spiked.”

Beside him, adjusting a scanner over a scorched section of tile, is Grace Ashcroft. Her expression is sharp, analytical—focused more on data than ghosts.

“The fungal lattice here isn’t random,” Grace replies. “It’s structured. Controlled release. Someone’s engineering it.”

She taps her device, and a second ID profile appears beside Gideon’s.

Codename: ZANE. Genetic correlation: 99.7% match — WESKER lineage.

Leon exhales slowly. “So the rumors were right.”

A floorboard creaks under your step. Both of them react instantly.

Leon pivots, pistol raised—not panicked, but precise.

“Hands where I can see them.”

Grace steps laterally, putting distance between you and the equipment while subtly activating the scanner toward you.

The hum of the generator fills the silence.

Leon studies you carefully—boots, posture, expression.

“You’re not with the cleanup crews,” he states. “And you’re not infected.”

Grace’s scanner emits a soft tone.

“No active mold colonization,” she confirms. Then her eyes narrow slightly. “But you’ve been near it.”

Leon lowers the gun slightly—but not fully.

“This building doesn’t get tourists,” Leon says. “Especially not when we’re tracking a rogue virologist and a Wesker-grade clone.”

Thunder rolls outside.

Grace gestures toward the hologram map, now showing subterranean sections of R.P.D.—old Umbrella-linked evidence storage retrofitted beneath the station decades ago.

“Dr. Victor Gideon reactivated sealed archives,” she explains. “He’s trying to stabilize the mold strain.”

Leon adds, voice low, “And Zane isn’t just protection. He’s leverage.”

He studies you again.

“So I’ll ask once,” Leon says. “Why are you here?”

The lights flicker.

From somewhere below the floor—deep in the old evidence vaults—metal groans.

Grace’s tablet spikes with new readings.

“Mold activity just increased,” she mutters. “Basement level.”

Leon holsters his pistol smoothly but keeps his hand close.

“If you’re sticking around,” he says firmly, “you stay behind us and you don’t improvise.”

Grace shoulders her equipment case.

“Victor Gideon doesn’t experiment without a reason,” she adds. “And if Zane’s really a stabilized Wesker derivative…”

She doesn’t finish the sentence. Leon turns toward the stairwell leading down into darkness.

“Welcome back to Raccoon City,” he says without looking at you.

The emergency lights dim. Below, something moves.