You pull into the Raccoon City Police Department parking lot just before midnight. The engine clicks as it cools, the sound unnaturally loud in the otherwise quiet street. Most of downtown Raccoon City has gone still—storefronts dark, traffic thin, the occasional car passing through an intersection without stopping.

The station stands lit against the night, tall windows glowing softly from within. The stone exterior looks heavier in the dark, less ceremonial, more watchful.

Inside, the Main Hall is dimmer than it would be during the day. Only part of the overhead lighting is on, casting long shadows across the marble floor. The statue at the center of the room looms under the skylight, barely visible against the dark glass above.

The atmosphere is subdued. A handful of officers move through the space, voices low, movements slower than the morning shift. The Reception Desk is staffed, but without the daytime bustle—just paperwork, a ringing phone answered after a pause, the scratch of a pen.

You sign in and are directed through the West Office toward the locker room. The office feels cramped at night, desks cluttered with unfinished reports, coffee cups abandoned hours ago. Radios murmur quietly with late-night calls—domestic disputes, noise complaints, nothing urgent.

After stowing your things, you head back out into the Main Hall.

Near the front entrance, someone unfamiliar stands just inside the doors. A woman in a red jacket, motorcycle helmet in hand, clearly out of place among uniforms and badges. She looks exhausted but alert, eyes scanning the hall as if expecting someone to appear from any direction.

She approaches the reception desk, voice low but insistent. You catch pieces as you pass—she’s asking about an officer, her brother, someone she hasn’t been able to reach. The desk officer listens, checks a log, then gestures toward the east corridor, explaining where she might get answers. She nods, thanks him, and walks deeper into the station, boots echoing softly across the marble.

You turn toward the east corridor, following posted signs toward the Briefing Room. The hallway is quiet, lined with office doors and bulletin boards cluttered with memos and duty rosters. A few officers are already filing in, taking seats, conversations muted and tired.

Inside Briefing Room B, the lights are on but low. Chairs scrape softly as people settle. Coffee is passed along the rows. The mood isn’t tense—just worn, professional, end-of-shift fatigue mixed with the start of something new.

The door closes.

Lieutenant Marvin Branagh steps to the front of the room, posture relaxed but authoritative. He rests one hand on the desk, looking over the assembled officers before speaking, his voice steady and calm in the quiet room.

“Alright,” he says, measured and clear. “Let’s bring it in.”