ELBRIDGE— A Few Minutes Earlier.

Alight drizzle fell over the small town, seemingly oblivious to the stillness of the night. Streetlights reflected off the wet asphalt, creating a dim, shimmering glow with each droplet. A wailing police siren pierced the night air, drawing closer and closer until it finally stopped just in front of the police line that had been set up around a narrow alley behind an old, nearly abandoned hotel. Several officers stood there in their dark raincoats, their faces weary in the flashing red and blue emergency lights. In the middle of the alley, a body lay stiff on the pavement. The forensic team had covered the body with a black sheet, but one feature remained visible—a pale palm lying outside the sheet, its fingers frozen in a half-clenched position, like someone trying to grab something in their final moments.

A man stood a few meters away, watching silently. His long black leather coat was soaked with rain, but he seemed unconcerned. His blond hair fell slightly over his forehead, and his eyes remained sharp despite the obvious exhaustion on his face. He stood behind the police line, his gaze fixed on his uncovered palm.

A woman's voice suddenly came through the small earpiece.

"Talk to me. Is this one like the other?"

The man lowered his head slightly, then took a few steps closer before stopping right at the edge of the police line. She didn't need to look any further to know the answer. The marks were always the same.

"Same black blotches," he replied in a low, deep voice, almost drowned out by the sound of the rain falling gently around them.

On the other side of the communication line, the woman paused for a moment before asking again.

"And it's not postmortem lividity?"

He shook his head slowly.

"No…" he said curtly. "No. This is different."

He finally turned and stepped away from the police line. His shoes splashed raindrops on the sidewalk as he walked past two officers standing near their patrol car. The red and blue lights from the police car's roof reflected off his leather jacket with each turn.

"That's six now." he continued, his voice flat but with a subtle tension behind it. "Six survivors of Raccoon City all died from the same thing."

On the other end of the line, the woman exhaled softly.

"Yeah, that's... not good."

A shiny black Porsche stood there, raindrops streaking down the windshield like thin, slow-moving streaks. He opened the door and climbed inside, the cool leather seat welcoming him as he sat behind the wheel. His hand reached for the dashboard, reaching for the phone resting there.

"But... I have something for you."

He turned on the phone's screen. A soft blue light illuminated his face, which looked increasingly tired that night.

"The team has settled on a person of interest." she continued, her tone now more serious.

His leather-gloved fingers slowly swiped across the screen. A photo appeared—a blurry image of a man in a long robe, his face obscured by the shadow of a hood.

"Someone with ties to Umbrella."

He swiped the photo again. Now another image appeared. The same man. But this time his face was clearer—covered by some kind of special lens that covered his eyes like a scientific visor.

"Victor Gideon."

The car window in front of him reflected his own face—the once-sharp blue eyes now a little darker, a little heavier with the passing years. He turned off the phone screen and put it back on the dashboard.

"A former T-virus researcher." she continued.