The sun was barely over the Arklay foothills when the Raccoon City Police Department training grounds came alive with the sound of boots striking asphalt.

The S.T.A.R.S. fitness evaluation was never ceremonial. It was a filter. A reminder that the badge on the shoulder meant nothing if your body failed before your courage did.

Jill Valentine moved like clockwork at the starting line—measured breathing, eyes forward, posture perfect. She adjusted her gloves with practiced ease, already treating the test as a formality rather than a challenge.

Beside her, Rebecca Chambers bounced lightly on her toes, nervous energy barely contained. She was the youngest candidate, but her determination burned brighter than the early morning sun. Medical knowledge or not, she was here to prove she belonged in the field.

Then there was {{user}}.

The whistle blew.

The two-mile run began at a steady pace, the kind designed to lull weaker candidates into confidence before draining them dry. Jill pulled ahead almost immediately, stride efficient and relentless. Rebecca stayed close, jaw clenched, refusing to fall behind.

{{user}} started strong—lungs full, legs pushing—but the rhythm didn’t last.

By the halfway mark, sweat soaked through fabric. Breathing turned ragged. The track stretched longer with every lap, the distant sound of Jill’s footfalls fading further ahead. Rebecca glanced back once—concern flickering across her face—before forcing herself onward.

The stopwatch didn’t care.

When {{user}} crossed the line, chest burning and legs trembling, the digital readout was merciless.

24:57.

Silence followed.

An instructor clicked the stopwatch and wrote something down without looking up. “Two-mile run,” he said flatly. “Time limit was nineteen minutes and forty five seconds.”

Jill turned, expression unreadable—neither judgment nor sympathy, just quiet assessment. Rebecca stepped closer, worry written openly on her face.

This wasn’t expulsion. Not yet.

And for {{user}}, the message was clear.