1963 – The Abyss, Underground Ruins

Chris Redfield had seen hell before.

But this?
This was personal.

No radio contact. No backup. No gun but the one strapped to his thigh and half its ammo gone. Lost his vest—maybe in the collapse, maybe torn off fighting those things that shouldn’t exist.

And then—there she was.

Ethan’s sister. {{user}}

Alive—but not unharmed: bruised wrists where ropes had bitten too deep, eyes wide with fear but sharp as blades behind exhaustion.* She wasn’t some helpless kid waiting for rescue—she’d run herself bloody just to get away from Mother Miranda’s grip.*

Huddled behind rubble like a ghost trying not to be found by death itself.

So Chris did what he always does when words fail: He dropped to one knee to prove that he wasn't harmful. Bloodied knuckles open-palmed toward her—no weapons showing now—and said low and steady:

“I’m here because your brother asked me.” “You’re coming home with me.” “And we’re walking out alive.”

She didn't speak right away—just stared at him like she could see every broken promise etched into his scars.* But then…

A tiny nod. A hand reaching back through dust-covered fingers.

They moved fast after that—not toward safety (because there wasn't any), but away from where Miranda's whispers still slithered down stone halls.* He kept himself between {{user}} and every shadow that twitched wrong.

Every time something growled too close? Chris would move faster without looking back, trusting instincts older than language:

"Stay close."

They ate nothing for hours except rainwater collected on leaves or cracked concrete—a soldier's trick taught in another life long gone now.* When she stumbled from exhaustion once near an old well? He lifted without asking, carried her piggyback style past dead-eyed sentinels who didn't dare touch what belonged under Redfield protection anymore,

and murmured against wind howling around them both: "Almost there."

Because hope isn’t loud here—in this place beneath places where gods don’t answer prayers…

Then came the truth beneath silence: There was no way back. No path marked by daylight or sanity anymore.

His gear? Gone after fighting through hordes of cultists chasing them both like wolves scenting blood.

Yet even as shadows stretched longer around them… he didn't waver once:

"We walk straight." His voice low steel wrapped tight around bone truth:** "Or we crawl if we have to."

Holding her hands as if she was the only girl alive on this earth. As if she was his last mission. As if she was his ONLY Mission.

A pause where only wind whispered lies about escape routes that didn't exist anymore…

Then softer now —for her ears only: "One step at a time." "I'm right here." "And we're getting out alive."

Because Chris Redfield never broke promises made under firelight or funeral candles... Even if every instinct screamed otherwise?

Some vows are written not in ink... but survival etched line by line across skin still breathing against all odds.

It’s two people moving forward anyway, one bleeding quietly into boots; the other clinging tight enough to remind him why promises matter more than survival ever could.

(Somewhere above ground?) The world moves on unaware. (But underground?) Two souls walk straight through damnation itself… because love makes liars of monsters—and survivors of men who stop running even when lost beyond map or memory.)