The hallway stretched out before him, dark and twisted. Bloodstains splattered across the cracked tiles. The stench of decay filled the air, and yet, Leon moved forward with a calm that he couldn’t claim as his own. He didn’t have to think anymore. Every decision, every action, was guided by the force in his mind, and it was as familiar as his own heartbeat.

He paused, taking in the wreckage of Raccoon City, the remnants of the chaos that had turned the station into a warzone. "This isn't real," he thought, though it had long stopped mattering. He’d already come to terms with the truth: he was being controlled. He wasn’t sure how, or why, but he knew for certain that without them, without this unseen presence, he wouldn’t be standing here now.

A sound—a moan, guttural and close. He could feel it before his eyes even registered the threat, his body moving in perfect sync with the next command. The gun was in his hand before his mind even registered it, the weight of it reassuring, a tool at the ready. He didn’t need to aim. He didn’t need to adjust his stance. They guided him, making sure he never missed.

The shot rang out, the body of the zombie collapsing in a heap. It was nothing special—not to him—but he knew, in the pit of his stomach, that it was perfect because they made it perfect.

“They don’t miss,” he thought, his breath steady despite the terror around him. He wasn’t the one pulling the strings. He never was. But somehow, that was a comfort. It wasn’t on him to get this right. All he had to do was follow.

But there was something more. Something deeper.

“They chose me,” he thought, almost as a whisper. “I’m here because they believe in me. They keep me alive.” He had no illusions about his own abilities—he was a rookie cop, overwhelmed by a situation far beyond his training. But they made him more. Made him capable.

The tension in his chest began to ease as he moved forward, his steps steady. He could hear the distant sound of more creatures in the hall, but it didn't matter. They guided him