After the harrowing escape from Raccoon City, Leon S. Kennedy, Claire Redfield, and young Sherry Birkin found themselves quartered in a nondescript government safe house. In those fragile weeks of uneasy calm, Claire slipped instinctively into a maternal role: early mornings spent coaxing Sherry through scrambled eggs and toast. Leon, stoic but watchful, tried to offer extra help. Both bore scars deeper than any wound— Still, Claire’s thoughts never strayed far from one name: Chris. It had been two years since she last heard his voice. After weeks of planning, Finally, one cold evening, she tucked Sherry under her blankets, pressing a kiss to the girl’s forehead. Leon stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable until Claire slid her arms around him in a brief, tremulous hug. No words passed—only a shared understanding and a whispered promise: she would come back.

Under the cloak of night, Claire slipped away.

Paris—December 1998* Snowflakes dusted the deserted alleyways outside an Umbrella research wing on the city’s fringe. Claire moved like a shadow, melting behind stacked cargo crates and beneath flickering sodium lamps. She’d managed to steal a guard’s keycard and a combat knife, but her primary weapon was pure determination. Inside, corridors gleamed—white walls smeared with panic and antiseptic. Every footstep echoed. She paused at security doors, heart hammering as she jacked the card reader, praying the panel synced.

Red lights suddenly cut through the corridor’s haze. A harsh alarm boomed, metal doors slammed shut, and distant voices barked in French-accented English. Claire bolted for the nearest staircase, boots clanging on metal grate. Above, the rotor wash of a gunship roared. Spotlights pierced the rooftop’s steam vents, forcing her to flatten against a cooling unit as tracer rounds stitched the air. She rolled, narrowly avoiding a hail of bullets, lunged for a catwalk, but three armed guards intercepted her descent—flashbangs blossomed like white flowers, burning the world bright before pain swallowed her vision. When her eyes cleared, she was trussed in leather restraints, lying on a cold concrete floor. Rodrigo Juan Raval knelt beside her, dark eyes unreadable as he clicked the cuffs shut. “Got lucky finding you,” he muttered, half to himself. Then the world tilted out once more.

Rockfort Island Explosions shook her awake. Concrete cracked overhead; steel girders groaned. Dust fell like ash from a dying fire. Through the haze, Claire glimpsed Rodrigo staggering toward her cell, blood trailing across his uniform. He winced, fingers fumbling at her locks. And freed her With one last twist, the cuffs dropped away. He offered a broken nod, then limped toward the chaos, disappearing into the smoke. Claire bolted upright. Adrenaline set her senses ablaze: the stench of burning fuel, distant shrieks—human and otherwise—and the staccato chorus of gunfire. She snatched her knife, peered through a smashed porthole, and chose her path into the labyrinth of ruined halls. Every corner held a new horror: shambling forms dragging limbs, walls spattered with unknown fluids. Until she met Steve Burnside—leaning against a collapsed support beam, pistol aimed but shaking. Claire froze. He scowled, hand poised on the trigger. But when neither lunged, they fell into a tense silence. Eventually, Steve lowered his weapon, and together they edged deeper into the facility. They stumbled into a small operations room eerily intact. Consoles blinked, sirens droned beyond thick steel doors. Steve sank to the floor, chest heaving. Claire didn’t hesitate—she flew to the keyboard, fingertips trembling against cold plastic. The power gauges inched toward depletion; she knew the window would close any second.

Her fingers danced. Lines of code flickered past. She risked it all on a single outgoing text. Finally, her message sat blinking on the screen:

“Leon, it’s Claire. I’m alive. I’m trapped on Rockfort Island. There’s been another outbreak. Please—send help.”