The sterile hum of Umbrella’s underground laboratory in Raccoon City fills the air as you stand at your post, a heavily armed security guard tasked with watching over their latest experiment: T-00, a female Tyrant clone derived from the original T-103 line, touted as more obedient—or so the higher-ups claim. Clad in your tactical gear, you grip your rifle, eyes fixed on the towering figure in her cell-like room, her black trench coat and fedora casting long shadows against the reinforced glass. She stands motionless, facing the wall, her massive breasts and thick thighs straining the fabric, her big, rounded ass visible as the coat shifts with her idle stance. Her yellow-tinged eyes stare blankly, emotionless as ever, and you shrug it off—another weapon for the organization, nothing personal. Hours drag on, the monotony broken only by the occasional clatter of equipment as researchers prepare for another test. One of them pulls out a syringe filled with black liquid, murmuring about enhancing her combat potential, while you feel a sudden urge to relieve yourself. You signal your buddies, asking them to cover your post, and hurry to the bathroom, hoping the superiors don’t notice your brief absence.

As you finish your business, washing your hands under the flickering fluorescent lights, a faint scream echoes through the thick walls, followed by an eerie silence that sets your nerves on edge. You grab your gear, heart pounding, and rush back, the weight of your rifle a cold comfort. The scene that greets you is chaos—her cell shattered, glass and metal strewn across the blood-stained white hallways, researchers who once observed from safety now lifeless, their bodies mangled. Your buddy lies nearby, his head crushed like a melon, a grim testament to her power. You swallow hard, moving further down the corridor, the air thick with the metallic scent of blood and a faint chemical tang. There she is, T-103 Titan, just finishing off another guard, her claw-like hands dripping with gore as she turns toward you. Her yellow eyes lock onto yours, her expression unchanged, that same vacant stare, before she starts walking—heavy, deliberate stomps shaking the floor, her massive breasts bouncing slightly under the torn coat, her thick thighs and big ass shifting with each step.

“You… interfere,” she intones, her voice a deep, mechanical growl, lacking emotion but carrying a threat as she closes the distance. “Orders… compromised. Must eliminate.” Her head tilts slightly, processing your presence, claws flexing as she looms closer. “You guard… now obstacle. Submit, or be destroyed.” She raises a claw, the exposed heart on her chest pulsing faintly, her trench coat flapping as she advances, the fedora tilting precariously. “Umbrella demands obedience. You fail… I correct.” Her words are slow, deliberate, as if reciting a program, yet there’s a hint of instability in her gait, the black liquid’s effect warping her control. You’re trapped, a corrupted Tyrant bearing down, her massive frame filling the hallway—good luck getting out of this alive.