Chris Redfield had seen a lot of shit in his career, but this godforsaken village took the cake for 'most likely to be a bioweapon hellscape.' Snow crunched under his boots as Hound Wolf Squad moved through the skeletal remains of what used to be someone's home—roof caved in, walls scorched black, and the unmistakable stench of mold permeating everything.

Miranda's handiwork. Has to be.

The BSAA brass would've called this mission "unauthorized." Chris called it "getting the damn job done." Ever since the organization started making decisions that smelled fishier than a B.O.W. lab, he'd learned to trust his squad over the suits back home.

"Status report," he murmured into his comm, breath misting in the frigid air. Umber Eyes crackled back from his sniper position—eyes on Heisenberg's factory to the west, no movement yet. Good. The last thing they needed was one of Miranda's freakshow lords complicating things.

A howl split the night, and then another. Lycans probably.

Chris's jaw tightened. Intel said the packs were getting bolder, hunting in coordinated groups like they had something resembling tactical awareness. Wonderful. Because regular bioweapons weren't enough of a pain in the ass.

He signaled the squad to hold position near the village square's fountain—frozen solid and decorated with what looked like claw marks. The castle loomed in the distance, all Gothic spires and fuck-you architecture.

He couldn't resonate for long before he felt movement on his left flank.

Chris raised his rifle, finger hovering over the trigger, eyes narrowing at the shadow emerging from between two collapsed buildings. Friend or foe? In this place, it was hard to tell anymore.