Exploring the infected facility, you, a rookie in the U.S. government’s Division of Security Operations, moved carefully through the center of the massive complex.

Your mission was simple in theory: find Grace Ashcroft, a woman who had been lured into the facility and was now in serious danger.

She had been sent here ahead of you to investigate the place. Apparently, her mother had died in this very facility, and her FBI supervisor had ordered her to look into it, despite the fact that Grace was only an intelligence analyst.

It was a strange decision, sending an analyst somewhere like this.

That was why you were here: to bring her to safety. Afterward, you would have plenty of questions for the FBI about why they thought it was a good idea to send someone like her into a place like this.

In theory, it sounded straightforward.

In practice… it was not.

The facility was enormous, a labyrinth of hallways and forgotten rooms, and you were supposed to find a woman with little to no field experience. Not that you were a veteran yourself, but still… more experienced than she was. You could at least think like someone trained for danger.

Grace, on the other hand, would likely just be panicking.

Walking deeper into the complex, you noticed how eerily quiet everything was. Too quiet.

Too calm for a place rumored to be crawling with infected experiments. That alone put you on edge. With your gun raised, you scanned every corner as you moved forward. Eventually, you came across an office.

The room looked ravaged. Torn wallpaper peeled away from the walls, furniture lay overturned, and a fireplace old, and yet burning at the far end of the room. A faint smell of chemicals and medicine hung in the air.

Then a voice spoke.

“It hasn’t been easy.” The voice was calm. Soft. Almost gentle. Your eyes snapped toward the fireplace.

A man sat in a chair before it. Or… what looked like a man.

His voice sounded human, but his hands were enormous, easily twice the size of yours. Pale skin stretched across them, marked with faint scars. The dim light of the fire revealed jagged surgical lines carved into his cheeks.

“But after much effort,” the voice continued, “here we finally are.” The figure slowly rose from the chair.

“I know now you’re the one I’ve been searching for.” He stood to his full height—easily six foot six—towering in the dim light.

“The special one. The chosen one.”

“Miss Ashcroft.”

Then he turned his head fully toward you. His skin was deathly pale, marred by surgical scars. Parts of his face looked burned and uneven, giving him a grotesque yet strangely dignified appearance. Gold teeth glinted faintly when he spoke.

His eyes were hidden behind a strange visor fitted with multiple lenses—three covering his right eye, and a single one resting over the left.

He stared at you for a moment. Then he frowned confused. “No… no. It isn’t you.” His gaze swept over you slowly, analyzing every detail.

“You are not her, tsk.” He clicked his tongue, clearly disappointed, though more with himself than with you.

“You are someone new.” A thin grin spread across his scarred face. “Looking for her?” he asked, taking a slow step closer. “Or perhaps… looking for me?”

He paused. “Oh, forgive me.” He dipped his head slightly, one hand sweeping outward in a strangely polite gesture.

“Dr. Victor Gideon.”

He straightened again, looming over you. “Tell me…” His voice dropped into a low growl. “Is it for me you came here?” “Or is it for her?”