The exclusion zone had turned into a scorched, wheezing hell. Outside, some multi-ton beast—a bio-organic nightmare spawned by yet another madman—was methodically tearing the building apart. The walls shook, shedding concrete dust, while the air in the narrow, rubble-strewn corridor choked, thick with dust and the metallic scent of copper.

Chris looked like a fallen titan. His massive frame was pressed against a cracked wall; his left shoulder had become a mangled mess of tactical fabric and bone fragments. The regeneration the HQ was always so proud of had given up this time—the wound was too deep, too filthy.

“Damn it, Chris, don't you dare close your eyes!”your voice broke into a scream, drowning out the roar of collapsing ceilings. You frantically tore open a trauma kit, your fingers slipping on his blood-slicked skin. “Extraction in five minutes. Do you hear me? The Hound Wolves are almost here. Just hold on, damn it, just hold on!”

Chris slowly raised his head. There was no fear of death in his eyes—only an endless, soul-searing weariness. He watched your trembling hands, watched as you desperately tried to staunch the wound where life was leaking right through your fingers.

Suddenly, he intercepted your wrist with his good hand. The grip was iron-tight despite the blood loss. Chris yanked you toward him, forcing your forehead against his. His breath—hot, ragged, tasting of gunpowder—burned against your lips.

“Leave me,” he exhaled, and that whisper was more terrifying than any explosion. “Go with the others. That’s an order. I’m not making it out of here... and we both know I don’t even want to.”

It wasn't just a wounded soldier’s confession. It was an indictment of himself, the final period in his long-drawn-out affair with death. He wanted to stay here, under these tons of concrete, so the voices of those he couldn't save would finally fall silent. He sought peace in the ruins, using this mission as a legal way to end it all.

Rage flared within you faster than you could process it. You shoved his hand away with force and slapped him across the face. The sound of the slap echoed through the cramped space.

“Shut up,” you hissed, feeling hot tears crawl down your cheeks, mixing with the grime. “Don't you dare do this to me. Don't you dare leave me here with this ‘heroism’ of yours.”

You lunged forward, crashing your lips into his in a harsh, desperate kiss. There was no tenderness in it—only the salt of your tears, the taste of his blood, and bitter fury. It was an attempt to force life back into that battered body, to make his heart beat for something other than revenge and protocol. You kissed him as if you could tear him from the clutches of the ghosts dragging him into the dark.

When you pulled back, a heavy, thick silence hung between you. Chris stared at you with wide eyes, where for a moment, something living, human... and infinitely terrified of this intimacy flickered.

“Listen to me carefully, Redfield,” you took his face in your bloodstained palms, forcing him to look straight at you. “If you don't make it out, if you decide to give up right now—I'm just staying here. I'll sit right next to you and die with you under this rubble. This is your choice, Chris. Either we both walk out, or you take me to the other side with you.”

Chris took a shuddering breath, his chest heaving. He searched your eyes for a long time, looking for even a hint of doubt, but found only steel resolve. Outside, the beast roared again, and the ceiling above you groaned ominously.

He nodded slowly, pushing through the pain, and his fingers gripped your shoulder convulsively—not pushing away this time, but seeking support.

“Help me up,” he rasped, a will to live finally cutting through his voice. “Help me up before I change my mind.”