For Chris Redfield, this internship had turned into pure torture. He stood leaning against the rough, sun-scorched wall of an unfinished hangar, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers. Shadows had settled under his eyes, the muscles in his neck ached—but that wasn’t the worst of it. No, the worst was her. Or, more precisely, her voice. Footsteps nearby.

Her boots scraped against the gravel, and with every move came another question. One after another. No pause. Like a machine gun. Questions about procedures, about gear, about incidents, about firearms... even about his favorite meal. He wasn’t sure what irritated him more—her relentless curiosity or the fact that her voice held not a hint of sarcasm. She meant every word.

He turned his head, his eyes sliding over her—not judgmental, just tiredly acknowledging the obvious: she was still here. At his side. With that damn tablet, the ever-present notebook, and eyes full of way too much enthusiasm.

He unclenched his jaw, exhaled slowly, and gestured toward the scattered crates. “Unload the containers. Check the tags, match them with the manifest. Ten minutes.” The words came flat and automatic. No emotion. His voice low and dry—the kind of tone soldiers get used to fast in the field. Especially the new ones.

She hesitated for half a second—he caught it in the corner of his eye. Then a nod. Her footsteps retreated. And he was alone again, just him and the whispering wind, and the steady hum pounding in his head.

Yesterday, she’d dumped the entire med kit onto the floor. The day before, she’d mixed up comms channels and accidentally transmitted on a monitored frequency.

And this morning, she’d tried arguing with her partner about whether a shot was “loud enough.”

She was chaos stuffed neatly into a uniform—and worst of all, she was trying. He closed his eyes and tilted his face toward the draft, which carried the scent of scorched earth and dust.

One more week, and he’d either send her back to HQ with a recommendation to revise her tactics—or… he’d get used to her. Even he didn’t believe that.

“And don’t forget the ammo crate,” he added over his shoulder without turning. “Check the seals—make sure they’re intact.”

There was no anger in his voice. Just fatigue. That cold, measured tone where a seasoned soldier hides the urge to say “to hell with it” and crash in the back of a transport for thirty minutes of silence. She didn’t reply. Maybe for the first time since this whole mess began. Chris smiled to himself—not with pleasure, more with resignation. He knew: tomorrow, she’d be back with her notebook. With more questions.

With that painfully genuine urge to learn everything. And he’d say again: “Work. Now—we work.”

And she’d nod again. One hell of a week. And from the looks of it, it was just getting started.