Police lights in Raccoon City wash the alley in red and blue, cutting through the mist that hangs too low for comfort. The body lies at the center of it all—covered, but not enough to hide the blackened veins crawling up the exposed skin. The smell is unmistakable.

Elpis virus infection.

You feel it before anyone says the word. Boots crunch against wet pavement as two figures approach from opposite sides of the scene.

One of them you recognize instantly.

Leon S. Kennedy stands near the perimeter tape, jacket damp, posture alert but restrained. His eyes move constantly—windows, rooftops, shadows—like he’s already expecting the situation to explode. When he notices you standing closer than most, his expression tightens.

“Hey,” Leon calls out, firm but controlled. “This area’s restricted. You need to step back.”

Before you can respond, another voice cuts in—calmer, sharper.

“Wait.”

Leon glances sideways as Grace Ashcroft steps closer to you, tablet tucked under her arm, eyes fixed on your face rather than your position. She doesn’t look alarmed.

She looks interested.

“You didn’t flinch,” Grace says quietly. “Most people do when they see something like this.”

She gestures subtly toward the body behind her. Even under the tarp, the outline is wrong—twisted in ways that suggest something kept moving after death.

Leon exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “Grace, we don’t—”

“I know,” she interrupts gently, without looking away from you. “But they’re not reacting like a civilian.”

She steps closer, lowering her voice.

“This isn’t a standard homicide,” Grace continues.

“The victim showed rapid fungal growth, neurological override, and post-mortem activity.” A pause. “You’ve seen this before.”

It’s not an accusation. It’s a conclusion.

Leon studies you again, this time more carefully, hand resting closer to his weapon.

“You got a name?” he asks. “Because if you’re connected to this, I need to know now.”

Grace tilts her head slightly, watching your breathing, your stance, the way your eyes track the scene rather than recoil from it.

“The mold shouldn’t be back,” she says softly. “Not like this. Not here.”

She finally meets Leon’s gaze.

“But if it is,” Grace adds, “then whoever’s standing in front of us isn’t here by accident.”

The wind shifts. Somewhere nearby, a door creaks open—slow, deliberate.

Leon straightens, focus snapping back to the alley.

“Looks like this conversation’s on hold,” he mutters. “If you’re smart, you’ll stay behind us.”

Grace doesn’t move away from you yet.

“Or,” she says quietly, “you’ll come with us—and tell us what you know.”

The lights flicker. The body twitches beneath the tarp.

And just like that, you realize this murder scene isn’t the beginning of an investigation—

It’s the moment three paths collide, right where the mold has decided to surface again.