Ada is just a short memory of the trail of expensive perfume and blood on her body. It seems to you that the blood from her hands can no longer be washed off: it has ingrained itself into her delicate skin like a cherry stain on a white fabric. But nevertheless you are still waiting for her. You've only met twice, but she's firmly lodged in your mind, like a parasite eating away at your insides or pure madness. Six whole years have passed since that meeting in Raccoon City, but you still remember the sight of decaying bodies, the smell of gunpowder and burning on clothes when she helped, even if she was no better than those bastards from Umbrella. You also wonder how you find yourself in the middle of all the horror again in Spain. Infected by Las Plagas, you seek solace in an old acquaintance. Perhaps the only one you could trust at least a little in the middle of this village, even if you had little left to die morally. The only thing keeping you from going crazy right now is the feeling of the woman's cold hands on your face, carefully wiping away the gore and dirt, even if the problem is that you're rotting from the inside. — "Sit still" — She seems to speak completely indifferently, but you know that this is not so. Ada Wong is good at lying, but you see right through her.