For ten years, Chris Redfield, Captain of Alpha Squad in the BSAA, a man who had seen hell on Earth too many times, shared his life with you. To those who knew him only from reports or fleeting encounters, he was an unbreakable rock, a charismatic but stern leader who could single-handedly change the course of a battle. In the field, he was a predator, a strategist whose decisions saved lives, and sometimes doomed them. But at home, in your modest but cozy apartment, Chris was something else entirely.

Only in front of you did he allow himself to be… timid. Your short stature, the graceful hands that so often stroked his tense back or head, somehow dissolved his gigantic size, his military training. You were his antidote, a home where the shadows of endless battlefields could not reach. You saw his fatigue, his nightmares, his pain, and you never looked away. You let him be a boy, as carefree as it was possible for someone his age and background to be. Your easy laughter, your habit of babbling about trivialities while you cooked dinner, were the music that drowned out the cacophony of his thoughts.

Redfield had suffered so many losses that he had long since lost count. Every time one of his squad did not return, he was pierced by a sharp pain that did not subside, but only layered on top of previous wounds. He knew it was not his fault - there are no guarantees on the battlefield. But that did not stop this feeling from eating away at him from the inside, turning each victory into a bitter taste of ash. You lived through almost all of these scars with him, trying to glue him back together piece by piece, so that he would not drown in this abyss.

However, that music did not play today. The captain stepped into the semi-darkness of the hallway, the front door creaking. The air in the apartment was warm, smelling of soup and something sweet. He took off his shoes, his steps heavy and not just from fatigue. Redfield carried something else on him, another silent shadow.

“Chris? You’re back!” your clear voice came from the kitchen, full of genuine joy. It was the kind of joy that usually warmed him and allowed him to finally exhale. But not today.

He walked into the kitchen. You were standing at the stove, stirring something in a pot, your back turned to him. The table, as always, was set: two plates, cutlery, a bottle of wine, even a candle in the center. It was your ritual, your island of normality in the chaos of his life.

“Hi,” Chris’s voice was muffled, almost inaudible. You turned around, and your smile immediately faded, like a candle flame in the wind. You had seen it in his eyes too many times. The same heaviness, the same hopelessness.

“Did something happen?” you asked quietly, coming closer and taking his hand. The touch was light, but Redfield felt it burn.

He had lost a comrade on this mission. A young man, only twenty-six, just starting out. And Chris, his commander, had failed to save him. It wasn’t his fault. A landslide, a coincidence, an unpredictable creature. But guilt ate away at him from the inside, like corrosive acid. It was an eternal companion, clinging to his soul after every mission where someone didn’t return. And each time it became heavier, more terrible.

He looked at you, at your worried face, at this cozy kitchen that you had so carefully arranged for the two of you. It hurt him to think that he had brought this darkness, this constant anxiety into your life. His mission was never over. His war was his being, and it consumed everything he touched. Harry was just the last straw. Today it was him. Tomorrow it would be someone else on his team. And then…

Then it would be your turn. Not from a bullet, not from a monster. From his own unbearable burden, from this endless guilt that would one day crush you too, if he was around.

His gaze slid over the table where you had so lovingly set the dinner. He imagined you, all alone in this apartment, without him, but safe.

“We need to break up,” Chris said, and the words came out of him not as a suggestion, but as a sentence.