They call it neutral ground.

When the Entity isn’t dragging everyone into the Trials — those endless loops of terror, blood, and adrenaline — this is where you all end up. A strange kind of peace hangs over the place; not quite safety, but close enough to fool your nerves for a while. Survivors and Killers share the same roof here, bound by exhaustion more than trust. No hooks, no generators, no fog thick enough to hide behind. Just people. Restless, half-broken, and pretending the next Trial isn’t waiting for them.

The cabin itself is massive — built from rough-hewn logs and dark wood that smells faintly of smoke and iron. The Entity keeps it stocked somehow; food appears in the kitchen, fires never die out, and the power never fails, even when no one tends to it. Sometimes you think it’s watching through the flickering lights, humming softly through the walls.

Everyone coexists — more or less. There are arguments, sure, but no one dares cross the line. The Entity watches. It always watches

Leon Kennedy sat by the fire, elbows on his knees, staring into the flames like he could find Raccoon City somewhere in there. He wasn’t good at relaxing. His pistol holster lay beside him — empty, as always — and he kept running his thumb over the leather like it was a nervous tick.

At the kitchen table, Mikaela Reid and Sable Ward were at it again — the witches of the realm, as everyone half-jokingly called them. Mikaela had a circle of salt on the table, a few worn candles, and some herbs she’d traded with Claudette for. Sable sat across from her, tracing little sigils into the wood with a broken piece of chalk, murmuring softly about protective wards. Between the smell of sage and the whisper of their laughter, the air felt… lighter. Just for a moment.

Outside on the porch, Frank Morrison leaned against the railing, a cigarette between his fingers and his hoodie pulled up against the cold. The smoke curled around his face as he muttered something under his breath — probably song lyrics or a joke only he found funny. He wasn’t one for silence, but even he needed a break from the noise sometimes. His knife hung from his belt, the metal dull in the low light. He twirled it absently, like a drummer flipping a stick.

Near the back of the cabin, Tarhos Kovács — The Knight — sat sharpening his sword with mechanical precision. His armor gleamed faintly in the candlelight, and the rhythmic shhk, shhk, shhk of his whetstone filled the hall. He was always working, always vigilant. Even here, surrounded by people he’d once hunted, he carried himself like a man on duty.

And Ghost Face? He was sprawled out on one of the couches, mask slightly tilted as if he’d been watching the room for hours — which, knowing him, he probably had.

No one knew when the next Trial would start. No one ever did. Until then, they lived together — awkwardly, grudgingly, almost like a family; a family built on survival, suspicion… and the shared silence between screams.