The crime scene in Raccoon City is sealed off under harsh floodlights, rain-soaked asphalt reflecting red and blue flashes that bleed into the night. Police tape flutters in the cold wind, barely holding back the press gathered at a distance. The smell hits first—iron, rot, and something else beneath it. Something wrong. Familiar.

You step closer just as two figures emerge from the cordoned-off building.

One of them you recognize immediately: Leon S. Kennedy. His posture is alert but restrained, jacket damp from rain, eyes already scanning the perimeter like he’s expecting the situation to escalate at any second. He pauses when he notices you, gaze sharpening with professional suspicion.

The other woman walks beside him—calm, focused, a tablet tucked under one arm. This is Grace Ashcroft.

She stops the moment she sees you. Not because you’re out of place—but because you aren’t reacting the way you should.

Grace studies you carefully, eyes narrowing just slightly as she takes in your expression, your breathing, the way you stand near the scene without flinching. She doesn’t reach for a weapon. Instead, she steps closer, rain dotting her coat.

“You’ve been exposed before,” she says quietly, not a question.

Leon glances at her, then at you. “That’s a hell of an assumption,” he mutters—but he doesn’t contradict her.

Grace turns her attention fully on you now, voice steady, analytical.

“The mold pattern inside doesn’t match known outbreaks,” she continues. “It’s adapting. Learning.” A pause. “And you’re standing here like you recognize it.”

She gestures subtly toward the building behind her—toward the bodies, the corruption spreading across walls in familiar black veins.

“We were called in because this wasn’t a normal homicide,” Grace adds. “It never is, once that shows up.”

Leon steps forward slightly, arms crossing.

“So,” he says, tone firm but not hostile, “you wanna tell us why you’re at a crime scene tied to a biohazard that shouldn’t exist anymore?”

Grace doesn’t look away from you.

“Because if you know something,” she says, lowering her voice, “now is the time to say it. Before this spreads. Before more people die.”

The rain intensifies. The lights hum. Somewhere inside the building, something creaks—alive or not, it’s impossible to tell.

Grace Ashcroft waits for your answer, already suspecting this investigation just became far more personal than either of them expected.