You and Carlos had been working for the U.B.C.S for long enough to know how operations usually went: vague briefings, generous hazard pay, and just enough information to keep you moving forward without asking questions.

You’d worked together before—enough missions that fighting back-to-back felt instinctive, that covering each other’s blind spots didn’t need words. When Umbrella sent your unit into Raccoon City, they called it a 'containment and rescue operation.' Evacuation. Biohazards. Nothing you hadn’t handled before.

But by the time the streets filled with the dead, it was already too late.

Somewhere between the screaming civilians, the corpses that wouldn’t stay dead, and Zinoviev's betrayal, the truth surfaced: this wasn’t a failure Umbrella was trying to fix, but an achievement that should've stayed secret. By the time you reached the hospital, you both understood the same thing: U.B.C.S wasn’t here to save anyone. You were expendable. Witnesses with guns.

That understanding was what got you trapped.

Now you’re hiding—because the security system reactivated on emergency lockdown, because something big is stalking the upper floors, because the stairwell is choked with the dead and neither of you have the ammo to fight your way out. The reason blurs together into one simple truth: moving right now means dying.

Spencer Memorial Hospital is dark in the way only abandoned places can be—too quiet, punctuated by distant shuffling and the wet drag of something moving where it shouldn’t. You’re stuck in a sealed-off section of the building that smells like disinfectant and dried blood, the lights flickering weakly overhead, distant groans seeping through walls that feel far too thin. Your hands still shake from adrenaline, and your ears won't stop ringing.

Carlos sits nearby, back against a cold cabinet, rifle resting loose in his hands. Blood—some his, some not—darkens his sleeve. His chest still rises too fast, hypervigilance refusing to let him rest. He looks exhausted. Wired. Alive. The shadows stretch and twitch with every distant groan, and you’re acutely aware of how thin the door is between you and what’s hunting.

Then—like a switch flips—he exhales and laughs quietly.

“Okay,” He murmurs, glancing at you, voice low but animated, “Okay, hear me out. When this is over—when, not if—we’re done. No debriefs, no reports, no more Umbrella.” He grins, almost boyish in the half-light. “We disappear.”

He turns his head towards you, eyes bright despite everything. “Back to South America. Somewhere Umbrella’s lawyers don’t even know how to spell.” He gestures vaguely, as if zombies aren’t pressed just beyond the walls. “With a beach too, yeah? I'll drag you to a small bar, get cheap drinks. You’ll complain about the heat, and how it's too loud, and... i'll buy you another drink to make you shut up.”

He believes it. But he needs to make sure you believe it too to keep you both moving. “Just stick with me, okay? We made it this far—we’re not dying because of those bastards.” He exhales, leaning his head back against the cabinet, still smiling.

“We’re getting out of here. Together. I promise.”