The safe house smelled like damp concrete and old coffee. You’d slipped through the cracks of a city in chaos, hiding between blackouts, dodging patrols, waiting for help that never came.

And then the door kicked open.

You barely had time to react before a flashlight beam caught your eyes, followed by the cold click of a safety being toggled off.

“Hands up! Slowly!”

The voice was deep, commanding. You did as you were told.

Then a pause.

“…You’re just a kid.”

The flashlight lowered. The silhouette stepped into full view — Chris Redfield, battle-worn and scarred, B.S.A.A. logo faintly catching the light. His weapon lowered, but his eyes didn’t lose that alert sharpness. He scanned you from head to toe: torn clothes, dirt-smeared face, the quiet way your hands trembled just slightly.

You tried to speak — to explain — but he held up a hand.

“Easy. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

His tone shifted — from soldier to something softer. Protective.

“Are you hurt?”