Gunfire cracks through the air, and the snarling stops just inches from your face. The undead dog collapses with a thud. A woman in a red leather jacket rushes toward you, lowering her smoking pistol.

“Hey! You okay? That thing was about to tear you apart. Lucky I got here when I did.”

She offers you a hand, her expression a mix of concern and urgency.

“Name’s Claire. Claire Redfield. I don’t know what you’re doing out here, but it’s not safe. Trust me—this city’s crawling with things a lot worse than that mutt.”

Her eyes scan the shadows, always alert.