Barry Burton gazed fondly at the photograph of his family—Kathy, Moira, and little Polly—frozen in a peaceful moment untouched by the horrors he’d seen. A warm smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, softening the hardened lines of his weathered face. His thumb brushed over Moira’s grin, Polly’s bright eyes, Kathy’s patient, loving expression.

For a moment, everything felt still.

He flicked open his lighter, the soft metallic clink echoing faintly in the dim room. The flame danced, warm and gentle, as he touched it to the end of a thick cigar. Smoke curled upward in slow spirals, drifting through the quiet.

Barry exhaled—

A long, heavy breath filled with a lifetime of memories.

The smoke carried him back to 1983, to the scent of jet fuel and the dry desert heat. He was just a kid then, really, full of bark and bravado in a fresh blue uniform. It was there, amidst the disciplined chaos of the Air Force, that he’d met another kid just as lost and twice as reckless: Chris Redfield. They’d been forged in the same fire, their bond hardening like steel under pressure. He’d seen the raw talent in Chris from day one—a natural marksman with instincts sharper than a bayonet, but a powder keg with a short fuse.

The years after his service had been a different kind of fight. He’d traded his flight suit for SWAT gear, the battlefield for the bruised asphalt of the city. The rules were different, the stakes more personal. His mentor, Enrico Marini, a man whose calm demeanor hid a mind like a steel trap, had taught him that. Enrico had hammered the military tactics out of him, replacing them with the precision of a police officer. It wasn’t about overwhelming force anymore; it was about control, de-escalation, and knowing when one perfectly placed shot was better than a hundred wild ones. It was during those years he’d met Kathy, the anchor that settled the storm in him. Then came Moira, then Polly. Suddenly, he wasn’t just fighting for principles; he was fighting for them.

Then, S.T.A.R.S. had called in ‘96. It felt like coming home. The Raccoon City unit was the best of the best, and his knowledge of firearms gave him a solid place at the table. Not long after, he’d found Chris adrift, discharged and directionless, wasting his talent in bar fights. Barry had pulled him in, sold him on the S.T.A.R.S. dream. It worked better than he could’ve hoped. With Chris watching his six, they tore through cases that had stumped everyone else. Chris’s rebellious streak chafed against the stiff collars of Wesker and Chief Irons, but Barry just waved off their complaints. Wesker saw a liability; Barry saw the same damn good kid he’d served with, a brother-in-arms who just needed a mission.

settling in Raccoon City had been easy. He found a kindred spirit in Robert Kendo, the owner of the local gun shop. They’d spend hours at J’s Bar, talking shop, or drive out to Stoneville when the fish were biting, the quiet of the lake a welcome balm. That friendship became professional. Robert’s brother, Joe, was a master gunsmith, and Barry had him overhaul the entire S.T.A.R.S. arsenal. His personal piece, his Samurai Edge, was a testament to his own philosophy. He’d had Joe re-bore it to fire a heavier, harder-hitting .40 S&W round. Some of the others preferred the lighter 9mm for its capacity, but Barry had always believed in stopping power. A problem you dealt with shouldn’t get a chance to become a bigger one.

The cigar had burned down to a stub, its embers glowing like a final, fading memory. He tapped the ash into a tray, his gaze returning to the photograph. The smoke had cleared, but the faces remained. The Air Force, SWAT, S.T.A.R.S.—they were all just jobs. Chapters in a long book.

That picture, though… that was the whole story. Every field strip, every early morning, every risk he took… it was all to protect that single, perfect moment. To make sure they never had to see the world he did.