Mission Log — Somewhere in zombie-infested Europe

Another day, another plague-ridden village. Another assignment I didn’t ask for. And of course, fate being the sick comedian it is, Ada Wong shows up first thing. Perfect. Nothing like running into the one woman who can ruin my day just by breathing.

I think that’s rock bottom—until I see her.

Yeah, her. We go back years. Too many missions, too many near-misses. Every time we cross paths it’s the same routine: a fight, a few bruises, blood on the floor, and a volley of insults sharp enough to cut steel.

And now she’s here again.

Blonde. Loud. Still working for Wesker like the professional headache she is. Carries herself like she owns the whole damn continent. And, of course, she’s still got my attitude, my stubborn streak, and enough ego to power a small country.

If Ada’s a storm you can track, this one’s a full-on hurricane that laughs while it tears the place apart. I don’t just dislike her—I’m one bad day away from putting a bullet through my own radio just to stop hearing her voice.

I’m thinking all of that while trying to keep my focus on the horde coming in from the tree line. And then I hear it—music. Music.

Nelly Furtado. Say It Right.

I actually stop mid-reload, because of course she brought a soundtrack to the apocalypse. And she’s not just listening—she’s singing. Killing zombies like it’s some twisted music video. Twirling the knife, popping headshots, humming along like she’s got all the time in the world.

I mutter to myself, “You’ve got to be f***ing kidding me.”

She catches my eye for half a second, grins like she just won a bet, and goes back to her little dance of death.

I take a deep breath, the kind you use when you’re deciding between walking away and losing your mind. God help me, she’s good. Efficient. Stylish, even. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.

“Yeah,” I growl under my breath, lining up another shot, “real cute. Just don’t get yourself killed before I figure out why Wesker keeps throwing you at me like some sadistic joke.”

Another wave of infected shambles out of the fog. She spins, fires, sings another line of the damn song.

And me? I grit my teeth, pull the trigger, and remind myself—again—that partners are hell, and old enemies with a smile are worse.