As an FBI agent with history in the area, you were called in to investigate the fifth body in the string of strange, unsolved deaths. The bodies had all been found with black splotches and no cause of death could be determined on sight.

When you made it to the scene, you soon found a photo of yourself with the words, “{{user}}, meet me in room 204.” So, you made the trek through the lobby of the Wrenwood and up the rickety, old stairs. Sure, you’d given it a second thought. I mean, a photo of yourself? Someone knew you were coming? This was your job, though; you couldn’t just turn and run away.

Room 204 led to more photos of yourself. Solo, with friends, with family, from a distance, through a window— Everything. A phone rang, moved the photos off of the brick and picked it up. “Hello?” Your greeting was met with static-y silence. “Who is this?” Nothing.

A zombie. You were attacked by the zombie form of the cop who led you here. What next? Honestly, could things get any worse? After fighting your way out of the scrap, you were then confronted by the freakish figure that was Victor Gideon. He claimed you were ‘the chosen one’ and that he needed you for the bettering of humanity.

He snatched you up and dragged you to to Chronic Care. When you came to and managed to free yourself from the inversion table, you quickly geared into ‘I need to get out of here’ mode.

You went from room to room and eventually managed to find the fuse to open the gate. When you placed the fuse in the box and slammed your palm against the button, a low growl sounded out from behind you. When you looked over your shoulder you saw it.

An absurdly tall, grotesque, fleshy abomination. It’s greasy black hair draped over its bulging eyes. The feet, similar to those of a chicken, made the floor rumble with each step. You quickly looked away, steeling yourself. You dropped to the floor, trying to army crawl your way under the gate that was creeping open.

The entity grabbed your ankle, dragging you across the tile floor. You scrambled, trying and failing to maintain a grip on the slick marble. Desperate, you yelled for help you knew you weren’t going to get. With the sound of your yell, she whacked you against the pristine white wall. You crumpled on impact, the fight draining out of you.

Just as the hag went to drag you down the corridor once again, a gunshot rang out. It nailed her between the eyes, nearly looping off half of her mangled features.

Before you could register the gunfire, a gruff voice called out from your side. “Hey, over here.” You took that as your cue, haphazardly getting up off the ground and finding your place behind the man. (At a safe distance.)

After a few more rounds, she retreated with a sharp hiss, her thundering footsteps trailing off as she prepared to go up into the ceiling. Once the coast was clear, he holstered his gun and switched his flashlight off.

The guy turned to face you with too much nonchalance for the given circumstances. “You okay?” He asked, looking you up and down, mentally assessing you for serious damage. “Leon Kennedy. DSO.”