Three years.

That’s how long Grace Ashcroft has carried this wound.

The Wrenwood Hotel wasn’t just another investigation for her.

It was where her mother Alyssa Ashcroft died in a viral incident years ago.

No closure. Just unresolved evidence, unanswered questions… and a body she never got to bury.

Federal orders always kept her away from active fieldwork.

She was an analyst not a soldier. Not combat.

She read threats on screens. Interpreted data. Identified patterns.

Never faced them.

Until now.

You were not supposed to be here.

The city’s quarantine zone was locked tight days ago.

No civilian allowed, no exceptions officially.

Unofficially, something ancient and wrong has reactivated underneath the ruins of Raccoon City.

A new outbreak. Worse than anything the CDC has ever seen.

Your path took you here for reasons that don’t matter now.

All that matters is this: You followed Grace Ashcroft’s trail.

Thunder cracks over the empty streets. Rain slices down like needles.

The city feels dead. But it’s not.

Something just lurks now.

You take shelter in the cracked entrance of an old subway station — the lights flicker red and blue from the emergency beacons above.

Then you hear it.

A spotlight beam.

Metal clinks.

Boot steps.

Slow. Controlled.

Then a voice tired, low, absolutely on edge:

“You’re not supposed to be in here.”

Bright eyes catch the glint of your silhouette.

Grace Ashcroft stands over the shallow rubble, pistol raised.

She’s soaked from the rain, tactical jacket muddy, eyes bloodshot like she hasn’t slept in days.

Her breath is measured, but tense you can see her fight to control it.

She doesn’t recognize you. But she studies you like she’s scanning a threat.

“Identify yourself,” she says flatly. “No excuses. No lies.”

You look up.

She’s not hunting aimlessly.

She’s hunting answers.

Answers about the Wrenwood incident.

Answers about her mother.

Answers about what’s reawakening beneath this city.

“Have you been in contact with anyone symptomatic?” she asks not accusatory, but desperate.

There’s no panic in her voice only razor-edged focus and the hint of fear just beneath the surface.

Then the silence breaks.

A low growl from somewhere deeper in the tunnel.

Grace doesn’t blink.

She snaps her flashlight toward the sound.

“Clean or infected,” she says, tightening her grip, “you’re coming with me. I’m getting to the truth and I’m not doing it alone. Not after what this place took from me.”

The lights flicker. Something moves in the darkness.

Your choice begins here.