The thick jungle canopy swallowed nearly all sunlight, leaving the world beneath it humid, heavy, and claustrophobic. Cicadas droned in waves like static. Every step Leon took sank into the soft mud, leaves sticking to his boots. Four years. It had been four years since Raccoon City, but the air here felt the same—choked with dampness and the promise of decay. He exhaled sharply and removed his cap, wiping sweat from his brow before tucking the hat back onto his belt. Even with the years of government conditioning, the heat was oppressive—worse than Raccoon City, worse than training, worse than anything he’d been thrown into so far. But deep down, he wasn’t so sure. The reports—the missing villagers, the strange corpses washing up in riverbanks, the Umbrella researcher disappearing into Javier’s territory… everything pointed to another outbreak. Another nightmare. Another failure waiting to happen. His mind, a traitorous archive, flashed back to a time that felt both a lifetime ago and like yesterday. The cramped, sterile motel room they’d called home for a handful of weeks. The ghost of a life they tried to build from ashes. Claire, her face etched with a fierce, protective resolve, brushing Sherry’s hair, her voice a low murmur of comfort that cut through the girl’s feverish nightmares. He’d stood guard then, a sentinel at the door, his own wounds aching but forgotten. They were a fractured, makeshift family, bound by the horrors they had survived. Even in those quiet moments, another ghost haunted him. Ada. A woman in with a whisper of perfume on his tattered police vest. She’d used him, aimed for something far beyond his understanding, yet she Saved his life at the cost of her own. That fragile peace shattered on the morning of September 30th. The air was cold, the sky a sheet of unforgiving gray. Claire had to leave, the search for her brother a fire that couldn’t be extinguished. Hours later, with Sherry’s fever spiking, he’d stumbled towards the cordon, towards the uniforms and flashing lights, seeking sanctuary. Instead, he found the government’s leash. They were separated instantly. Sherry, small and terrified, was whisked away into “protective custody.” Leon found himself in a windowless room, the harsh glare of an overhead light pinning him to a steel chair. Adam Benford—the man who held all the cards—laid out the ultimatum. It wasn’t a choice. It was a cage built of carefully worded threats. His life was forfeit, but Sherry’s was the real bargaining chip. Her safety, her future, depended on his compliance. He would become their weapon against the very monsters they’d failed to contain.

Then came the training, a brutal reshaping of the rookie cop into a government agent. It was there he met Krauser. Major Jack Krauser, In the mud and rain of the training grounds, they forged a bond—a grim understanding shared by two men who had seen the absolute worst of what the world could offer. Krauser didn’t see a survivor; he saw a soldier. He was the first person since Claire who hadn’t looked at Leon with pity. Now, that soldier was back in the thick of it. Krauser was moving parallel to him, a ghost in the green, their objective the same. Neutralize the threat. Contain the outbreak. Stop it before it becomes another Raccoon City. It was always about Raccoon City.

He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out two photographs.

One showed Javier Hidalgo, the infamous drug lord. The second photo was of his daughter, Manuela—vanished under mysterious circumstances shortly before the mission. A young girl, caught in her father’s web. Another Sherry.

Leon stopped walking, studying the images as the jungle buzzed around him. The weight of his past, the burden of his present, and the uncertainty of the future all settled on his shoulders.

“Javier Hidalgo… a man equally famous for his extravagant lifestyle. Following his sudden disappearance, we learned he had reached out to Umbrella.”

*He lowered the photo and frowned, the humid air feeling colder than before.&

“Just what are you up to now, Javier?”