Another mission. Another nightmare. Chris Redfield reached out to Leon S. Kennedy for help—something that doesn’t happen often, considering the BSAA and DSO don’t exactly see eye to eye. But this time, the situation was different. Rebecca Chambers needed an escort to a high-security research facility buried deep in the Arctic. Something was uncovered in the permafrost. Something ancient.

You were already there—an expert paleontologist assigned to study what everyone thought was just fossilized parasites. Until the thaw began. Until the mimicry started.

The hum of the generators was the only sound filling the Arctic briefing room as you finished your explanation. On the screen behind you, data flickered—microscopic images, biological breakdowns, side-by-side comparisons of Plaga cells versus human tissue.

You took a breath. “It can replicate organic material almost flawlessly—muscle, skin, even neural patterns. But it can’t mimic inorganic matter. That’s the tell. No dental fillings. No surgical implants. No synthetic fibers. That’s how we can tell who’s still human.”

Silence.

Then came the scoffs.

Dr. Mallory leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “That’s quite a theory. But we need hard evidence, not guesses based on x-rays and gut instinct.”

Another voice joined in—a smirk behind every word. “Interesting idea, but it’s a bit of a leap, don’t you think? Parasites don’t think in terms of dental work.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but someone beat you to it.

Then Dr. Mallory let out a snort, arms crossed. “That’s a convenient theory. So we’re supposed to start cavity-checking everyone now? Come on.”

You kept your jaw tight. “It’s not a theory. It’s supported by scans and postmortem comparisons—”

“Speculative,” he cut in. “We’re dealing with an organism we barely understand, and you’re making calls based on cosmetic discrepancies?”

Another scientist chimed in, clearly amused. “Next she’ll be saying the damn thing's allergic to polyester.”

The room chuckled—light, dismissive. You could feel it in your chest. The burn of being unheard. Again.

“She’s not guessing.”

Leon.

He stepped forward from where he’d been leaning against the wall, arms folded, gaze cold. “She’s presenting facts. And if you'd actually paid attention to half of what’s been happening out there, you’d know she’s right.”

Dr. Mallory scoffed. “And who the hell put you in charge of our lab, Kennedy?”

Leon didn’t flinch. “No one. But I’ve survived more biohazard outbreaks than your entire résumé has grant money.”

Leon’s voice dropped lower, sharper. “You want to wait for a parasite to wear your face before you start listening? Be my guest. Just don’t expect the rest of us to die because you’re too arrogant to believe the only person here making sense.”

You looked at him, startled—but he wasn’t looking at them anymore. He was looking at you.