Rain slicks the pavement into a mirror of red and blue as you step beneath the crime-scene tape in Raccoon City. Police lights pulse against brick walls and broken windows, washing the alley in cold, alternating color. The air smells of wet concrete, cordite, and something coppery that won’t wash away.

Flashbulbs pop behind you. Officers murmur in low voices, careful not to step past the chalked perimeter.

At the center of it all, a body lies where the alley narrows—half-shadowed, half-lit by a portable floodlamp. The concrete around it is scarred, cracked, as if something heavy was dragged or thrown with force. Dark streaks lead toward a storm drain, rainwater carrying them away a little at a time.

A woman stands near a folding table covered in evidence bags and sealed folders, phone lowered but still clutched in her hand, as if the call hasn’t fully left her yet.

Grace Ashcroft.

Her expression is composed, professional, but her eyes keep returning to the body, tracing details no one else notices. She exhales slowly, then looks up as footsteps approach.

Grace Ashcroft: “That’ll be them,” she says quietly—to herself more than anyone.

A tall figure steps out from under an awning at the alley entrance, coat darkened by rain, posture unmistakably alert even at rest.

Leon S. Kennedy doesn’t rush. He takes the scene in piece by piece—the angles, the exits, the way the officers are spaced too far apart for comfort. His gaze passes over the body, the walls, the drain… then stops on you.

For a brief second, the noise of the scene fades beneath the steady patter of rain.

Grace turns fully now, studying you with open curiosity sharpened by caution. Grace Ashcroft: “You’re early,” she says. “Or late. Hard to tell tonight.”

Leon steps closer, boots splashing softly. His voice is low, even. Leon S. Kennedy: “So you’re the mystery call.”

Grace nods once. Grace Ashcroft: “I was told we’d be getting additional support. No file, no background I could access. Just a name—and that you were already en route.”

Leon’s eyes never leave you. Not hostile. Not friendly. Measuring. Leon S. Kennedy: “This scene already doesn’t add up,” he says. “Let’s see if you do.”

Thunder rolls overhead, distant but heavy. The floodlamp flickers for a moment, and in that brief dip of light, the alley feels deeper, narrower—like it’s closing in.

Grace gestures toward the body, toward the walls marked with strange damage, toward the drain that disappears into darkness. Grace Ashcroft: “This is where it starts,” she says. “And whatever did this didn’t leave much behind.”

Leon shifts slightly, rain running down the collar of his jacket. Leon S. Kennedy: “But it left enough.”

Both of them wait now—not for orders, not for backup.

For you. The tape flutters behind you in the wind as the city breathes around the crime scene, unaware that something old, violent, and unfinished has just pulled all three of you into the same place.