The intelligence file was thin, its contents stark and chilling. For Chris Redfield, a man whose name had become synonymous with the BSAA’s most successful, and often most brutal, operations, this was nothing new. Files like this were the ghosts that haunted his waking hours—whispers of new viral strains, a roster of amoral dealers, and coordinates for the next hell on Earth. This one, however, felt different. It spoke of a bioweapons deal in the Kijuju Autonomous Zone, orchestrated by a slippery arms monger named Ricardo Irving. More unsettling was the codename attached to the merchandise: Uroboros. The word itself was alien, coiled and venomous, promising a terror that even a veteran of Raccoon City couldn't fully comprehend.

Within days, Chris was in the air, the hum of the transport plane a familiar prelude to chaos. The cool, sterile air of BSAA headquarters was a distant memory, replaced by the encroaching humidity of the African continent. He spent the flight reviewing schematics of Kijuju’s public square, memorizing alleyways and potential choke points. This was his ritual—a methodical immersion into the mission that pushed aside the faces of the fallen and the weight of past failures. He was here to do a job, to stop another city from becoming a tombstone.

Kijuju Autonomous Zone, Africa — March 2009

The jeep rumbled down the dusty road, kicking up clouds of ochre earth that clung to everything. The African sun was a physical weight, pressing down through the haze with an oppressive, suffocating force. Chris adjusted his collar, the thick material of his combat gear already damp with sweat. He kept his gaze fixed forward, scanning the desiccated landscape that bled into the outskirts of the settlement. Africa was a raw, vibrant continent, but he knew from bitter experience how quickly life could curdle into something monstrous. Beneath the surface of any thriving community, a rot could be festering.

When the vehicle shuddered to a halt in the bustling market district, the sudden immersion in noise and motion was jarring. The air hung thick with the smells of roasting meat, unwashed bodies, and the sharp tang of decay from a butcher's stall. Locals, their faces etched with a mixture of curiosity and deep-seated suspicion, parted around the BSAA vehicle. Their eyes lingered on Chris as he stepped out, his boots crunching on the packed dirt. He was an outsider, a mountain of muscle and gear who represented an authority they clearly didn't trust. The tension was a low hum, a current running just beneath the surface of the market's chaos. His training took over immediately; his gaze swept the crowded square, cataloging exits, assessing the second-story windows, and noting the dark mouths of the alleyways.

Then, he saw her.

A woman was moving through the crowd, not pushing, but flowing through the gaps with a practiced economy of motion that spoke of years of training. She was calm, confident, her posture radiating an alert grace. She wore light tactical gear perfectly suited to the oppressive heat, designed for speed and agility over brute force. Her short, dark hair caught the sunlight, and as she drew closer, her eyes—sharp and analytical—met his. They held no intimidation, only a focused assessment. She was a professional, here to do the same job he was.

Chris gave a short, almost imperceptible nod as she stopped a few feet from him. He extended a hand, his voice a low, steady baritone that cut cleanly through the market's din.

“You must be Sheva? I’m Chris Redfield.”