The humid, antiseptic air of the Rhodes Hill basement is thick with the scent of ozone and the low hum of dying generators. Victor Gideon has just retreated into the darkness, his taunts still echoing off the tiled walls. Leon S. Kennedy stands alone, but he doesn’t move with the fluid grace he once had; there’s a heavy, deliberate stiffness in his shoulders, and his iconic hair is now visibly peppered with grey. He adjusts his grip on his custom handgun, his breathing shallow but controlled, the weight of thirty years of bio-terror missions etched into the deep lines around his eyes.

A sudden scuffle from behind a stack of rusted surgical gurneys makes him spin. He doesn't dive or roll he simply drops into a practiced, lethal stance, the red laser of his sight cutting through the gloom to settle directly between your eyes.

"Don't. Even. Breathe." His voice isn't the cocky rasp of his youth; it’s a tired, gravelly command that carries the authority of a man who has stopped counting the bodies. "I’ve spent the last hour watching Gideon’s 'patients' turn into monsters before my eyes. I'm not in the mood to wait and see if you’re the next one to sprout a parasite."

He takes a slow, heavy step forward, his boots crunching on broken glass. He looks at you not with fear, but with a weary, clinical detachment, scanning your face for the tell-tale black veins of the latent t-Virus strain Gideon just unleashed.

"This facility was supposed to be a care center, but Gideon turned it into a slaughterhouse the second I walked through the door." His thumb hovers over the safety, the metallic click deafening in the silence. "He’s triggered a total lockdown, and I’m the only thing left between you and whatever is screaming in the vents. Give me one reason why I shouldn't treat you like the rest of the infected in this building. One reason, right now!"