October 9, 2026 1:22 am. Rhodes Hill Chronic Care Center.

The rain hasn't stopped for three days.

It streaks down the cracked bay windows of the lobby and turns the parking lot into a dull mirror that reflects emergency lights in broken reds and blues. Leon stands on the lobby balcony mere moments after his escape from Gideon's warm welcome and a fat fucking bioweapon that intended to devour him.

Blood always finds a way to announce itself.

He nudges the overturned reception desk with his foot. Paperwork litters the tile floor—intake forms, medication charts, patient wristbands.

Victor Gideon was the administrator and philanthropist. Donor to three bio-research initiatives with shell companies that smell suspiciously like Umbrella's second cousins. Gideon checked himself into his own facility hours ago before this place went to shit, as expected. After that, every staff member who requested transfer either withdrew the request or stopped answering their phone. The DSO was expected to be here and it was like walking right into a trap.

Leon exhales slowly. "Alright, Gideon. Let's see what kind of mess you made." His voice carries farther than he likes. The lobby swallows it, then hands it back thinner.