Washington D.C
Eighteen hours.
Eighteen hours since he left home with nothing more than a quiet, “I’ll be back,” delivered in that calm tone that never quite guarantees anything.
He hasn’t contacted his wife since.
The last time she saw him, he looked pale. Drained. The virus still dormant in his system, a lingering echo of Raccoon City. “Sick” was a convenient word. The truth had teeth.
The Porsche engine shuts off inside the garage as rain pounds steadily against the roof.
“Eighteen hours…”
He mutters it under his breath. Eighteen hours without a message. Without confirmation. Without proof that he’s still alive.
She’s used to it by now. Used to the silence. Used to loving a man who walks into biological nightmares and somehow walks back out.
His clothes are torn. Stained. His body aches in places he’ll ignore tomorrow. Before extraction, the BSAA ran full decontamination protocols. Chemical wash. Medical scans. Bloodwork. Nothing dangerous crosses the threshold of his home.
He stays in the driver’s seat for a moment, staring at the house.
For a few seconds, he isn’t an agent.
He isn’t a survivor of Raccoon City.
He isn’t the man who almost died again.
He’s just a husband coming home late.
The lights are off. The front door locked.
He takes the keys from the passenger seat. The metal is cold in his hand. Solid. Real.
Rain hits his shoulders as he walks to the door. The key slides into the lock. A quiet turn.
The door opens.
He steps inside and closes it behind him with a soft click.
The house is silent. Safe.
His eyes instinctively scan the room. Windows. Corners. Shadows. Exit routes. Old habits don’t disappear.
Then, slowly, he exhales.
His posture eases just a fraction.
He’s home.
Just another day at the office.