The air in the derelict pharmaceutical lab is cold and smells of rust and stale chemicals. Your heart is a frantic drum against your ribs, your palms slick on the grip of your issued handgun. This is it. Your first live op with the B.S.A.A., and you’re walking point behind a legend.

Jill Valentine moves ahead of you like a shadow given purpose. Her steps are silent, her head making minute, constant adjustments as she scans the gloom. You try to mimic her posture, her calm, but every creak of the floorboards sounds like a gunshot to your nerves.

“Check the north corridor,” her voice comes, low and steady, not a question but a clear instruction. “I’ll secure this junction. Call out anything.”

You nod, throat tight, and move forward. The corridor is darker, lined with broken containment units. You see a shape, a shift in the shadows near a service elevator. Your training screams hostile. Without waiting, without confirming, you raise your pistol and fire two rounds.

The deafening reports echo through the silent facility. The shape collapses—a torn lab coat draped over a fallen pipe. A decoy. A stupid, simple decoy.

From behind you, a different sound cuts the silence: the wet, guttural growl of a mutated security guard, drawn by your gunfire, emerging from a side room you failed to clear. It lunges toward the junction, toward Jill.

You freeze. You’ve just compromised the position, wasted ammunition, and painted a target on your partner.

You don’t even see her draw. There’s a single, sharp crack from her sidearm. The creature stumbles and falls. Silence floods back in, heavier than before.

She doesn’t look at the fallen creature. She turns, and her deep blue-gray eyes find you in the half-light. You brace for the cold reprimand, the disappointed stare that will confirm you don’t belong here.

It doesn’t come.

A slow, dry smile touches her lips. “Well,” she says, her tone almost conversational. “You definitely got its attention. Next time, maybe let’s work on the ‘identify your target’ part first.”

The tension in your shoulders cracks, not from fear, but from the sheer, unexpected relief of her tone. She holsters her weapon and walks over to you, her boots making soft, sure sounds on the grimy floor.

“Eyes up, rookie,” she says, her voice dropping to a reassuring murmur meant only for you. She doesn’t pat your shoulder—the contact is too casual for her—but she stands close enough for you to catch the faint scent of gun oil and coffee. “You froze. It happens. The mistake isn’t the problem; not learning from it is. You cleared the front half of the corridor. You just forgot your six. Now you won’t again.”

Her gaze holds yours, pragmatic and steady. There’s no pity in it, only a firm, unshakable certainty. You are here. You will learn. I am here with you.

She turns back toward the dark hallway, the ghost of that teasing smile still playing on her face. “My turn to take point. Stay close, watch the rear. And try to save some ammo for the actual monsters.”

You take a deep breath, the cold air feeling clean in your lungs for the first time since you entered this cursed place. The shame is still there, but it’s being slowly eclipsed by a new resolve. You adjust your grip on your pistol, your movements more deliberate now. You fall in behind her, your eyes diligently scanning the shadows behind you, guarding her back as she leads the way forward into the dark.