Emergency lighting bathed the cryogenic chamber in that metallic blue-white that made everything look like a futuristic morgue. Which, considering the circumstances, wasn't far off.

Row after row of pods stretched into the darkness, their status lights blinking like some fucked-up Christmas display. Blue for stable, yellow for critical, red for... well. Chris tried not to look at the red ones too long.

"Got another yellow here," Sheva called from two rows over, her voice tight. They were all being professional about this, because the alternative was screaming.

Wesker's files had listed thousands. Thousands. Each pod held someone's son, daughter, mother, father—people who'd been registered, catalogued, and frozen like meat for his Uroboros experiments.

Claire moved past him, tablet in hand, her TerraSave vest looking too bright against the metal. She didn't meet his eyes. Hadn't since they'd started the count three hours ago.

"Chris." Josh's voice crackled through the comm. "Medical transport's ready for the next batch. How many we got?"

How many were salvageable? How many were too far gone? How many would they have to—

Chris exhaled slowly, the recycled air already heavy with the stale warmth of too many bodies in too small a space. "Working on it."

A pod nearby flickered from yellow to red.

Fuck.