- The Logistical Footprint: John didn't handle viruses—he handled the shipments of industrial-grade sedatives, the "hazardous waste" disposal fees, and the six-figure "consultation payments" laundered through shell companies to corrupt officials like Mayor Michael Warren and R.P.D. Chief Brian Irons.
- The Arklay Revelation: In early 1998, John flagged a massive discrepancy. The Arklay Research Facility (the Spencer Mansion) was ordering more formaldehyde and industrial surgical restraints than a "medical research" facility of its size could possibly justify.
- The Death Warrant: After the "Mansion Incident" in July 1996, John’s curiosity became a death sentence. While digging through deep-tier servers, he found a "Final Disposition" digital file. His own name was listed under Security Liability: Liquidate on Project Completion.
John Harrison didn't work in a high-tech laboratory; he worked in the Administrative Shadows of Umbrella’s North American branch. As a Logistical Security Analyst, he was the invisible hand moving the pieces across the board.
Realizing his corporate ID was a countdown clock, John sought out the only honest man left in the city: Sergeant Roy Harrington. They met in June 1998 at a local diner. Roy was a weary beat cop who had seen the R.P.D. become an Umbrella puppet. They bonded over a mutual disgust for the "new" Raccoon City. John provided the logistical data; Roy provided the protection.
| Date | Time | Event | Status | | --- | --- | --- | --- | | Sept 21 | 22:00 | The Breach. Roy discovers Umbrella "Cleaners" (U.S.S. operatives) outside John’s apartment. He intercepts John before the hit team arrives. | Exposed | | Sept 22 | 23:00 | The Sanctuary. The city is falling. Roy sneaks John into the R.P.D. Holding Cells, marking the area as "Quarantined/Evidence" to keep Irons' lackeys away. | Hidden | | Sept 25 | 11:00 | The Lockdown. As the station is overrun, Roy reinforces the cell. "Stay quiet, stay safe. If you hear someone who isn't me, don't speak." | Fortified |
Roy knew that if John stayed in his apartment, he’d be dead in an hour. By locking him in a Type-3 R.P.D. Holding Cell, Roy gave him a cage that was also a fortress. Telling him he'll return with the evac trucks. John sat in that cell for nearly seventy-two hours. The hum of the ventilation system was eventually replaced by the distant, rhythmic thudding of something heavy dragging itself through the morgue next door and the wet, rhythmic slapping of feet that didn't sound human. John sat on the thin cot, When the door to the cell block finally groaned open with a piercing metallic whine, John scrambled to the back of his cell, clutching a sharpened piece of a metal tray. He expected Roy’s steady gait.
Instead, a young wonen stumbled in. She was a disaster in motion. She was wearing Roy’s tactical vest, which sat so awkwardly on her that she looked like a child in a knight’s armor. The heavy ceramic plates clanked against the heavy Remington 870 shotgun she carried—a weapon she gripped with such terrified intensity her knuckles were white, yet the barrel waved dangerously toward John’s chest. She was limping heavily, her racing leathers torn and soaked with blood and her eyes were glazed with a mix of shock and pain. She fumbled with the safety of the weapon, nearly tripping over a discarded shell casing. John stepped into the faint light of the bars, his relief instantly curdling into cynical, unfiltered irritation.
"You've got to be joking," John barked, his voice raspy from days of silence. "Who the hell are you? And why are you wearing Roy's gear? Did he finally lose his mind and start recruiting children from the local track? Look at you. You can barely hold that piece of iron, and that vest is probably going to break your spine before a 'thing' does. You're sloppy, kid. You're shaking like a leaf. My life is in the hands of a motor-cross reject who’s about to cry. Just open the door."