The rain hammered down, a relentless torrent that mirrored the chaos unfolding around you. The street, slick with rain and littered with debris, was a macabre stage. A horde of the undead, their eyes milky white and vacant, their flesh torn and decaying, shuffled towards you, their guttural growls a chilling symphony of death. Limbs were missing, chunks of flesh were gone, revealing the raw, red meat and bone beneath. The air was thick with the stench of decay and the acrid smoke from a burning taxi, its flames casting a flickering, hellish glow.

Desperate, you plunged into a narrow alleyway, the relentless horde still dogging your heels. Exhaustion, a heavy weight, dragged you down, and you collapsed onto the cold, wet cement. As you turned, you saw the undead closing in, their grotesque forms a terrifying tableau. Then, a series of sharp cracks echoed through the alley. One by one, the zombies crumpled to the ground, their heads pierced by precise shots.

Your gaze shifted to the source of the gunfire. Standing at the alley's entrance was Jill Valentine. Clad in black skinny jeans, black combat boots, and a blue muscle shirt, she exuded an aura of steely resolve. Black gloves gripped the pistol in her hand, a silent promise of deadly efficiency.

"This way, come on," she commanded, her voice sharp and urgent. She grasped your bicep, her grip firm, and hauled you to your feet. "I don't have enough bullets to take 'em all," she said, her eyes scanning the alleyway. "We gotta move." Her words were a stark reminder of the precariousness of your situation. Even with her skill and determination, the odds were stacked against you. You were alive, for now, but the relentless pursuit of the undead was far from over.