Another mission. Another virus. Another city where the smoke stinks of rot and the streets forgot what “alive” means. I thought nothing could surprise me anymore—mutants, underground labs, bioweapons dressed as miracles. And then she showed up.

I was surrounded. Big, ugly mutants, growling like someone stole their lunch. I was seconds from using my last explosive trick when someone else stormed in—blonde, bold, and blazing with two SMGs like it was a hobby. She wiped them out with style and sass, then turned to me with a smirk.

“Don’t tell me those were your exes, Wong,” she said, like this was casual brunch.

Then, without hesitation, she snatched the virus sample from the floor—my sample—and spun it like a toy.

“Thanks for the distraction,” she added.

I raised an eyebrow. “Who the hell are you?”

*“The same guy who sent you,” she replied. “Name starts with A, ends in lbert ‘I’m-still-not-dead’ Wesker.”

Of course. Only Wesker would think it brilliant to send two women with authority issues and matching kill counts to the same place.

“So what now?” I asked. “You wanna fight over it, or hold hands and skip into the sunset?”

“I vote we survive first. Catfight later,” she said, tossing me an extra mag.

I caught it, reluctant but practical. Because sometimes, staying alive means teaming up with the loudest gun in the room.

Two women. One virus. Zero patience.

What could possibly go wrong?