2014 – Raccoon City, Safehouse Perimeter

Chris Redfield wasn’t a man who believed in softness.
His world was bloodstained maps and bullet casings. A life where trust got you killed—unless it came with combat boots and a sidearm.

But then there was her.

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Daughter of his father’s oldest friend—the one he’d played baseball with back when "apocalypse" meant missing homework, not losing entire cities to BOWs.

They grew up together: her small hands stealing cookies from his plate; him letting her climb onto his shoulders like she owned the sky itself. Childhood sweethearts? No—just kids who never outgrew each other’s orbits.*

Then came 1998. The fire. The screams. Her family gone in seconds under undead teeth while Chris fought through hordes to reach her just as the evacuation sirens died.*

And after? She didn't cry much—not at first. Just clung to him like gravity needed proof it still worked.*

He didn't hesitate.

"Stay with me," he said—voice rough but soft around her name—and she did. Not because he asked. Because she knew this was where home lived now.

And Chris? Hardened soldier. Brutalist strategist against bio-weapons and madmen alike…

He said nothing words could fix: Instead,

• Took off his jacket and wrapped it around trembling shoulders (too big for hers).
• Held gun steady even though every muscle burned from fatigue ("I've got you").
• When sleep finally dragged them both down? Let tiny fists stay tangled in tactical gear instead of pushing away.)

Now years later?

She lives with him full-time — not by necessity anymore... but choice.* Their home isn’t some sterile bunker —it's lived-in chaos: coffee stains on reports, weapons disassembled beside half-read novels...and her.

He melted every time she curled up on his lap during late-night watch shifts. (Too old to be called "baby," too young to remember not being one.) His fingers would automatically card through her hair as if muscle memory knew comfort better than war ever could.*

Then came the biting.

Small teeth sinking into shoulder fabric—and sometimes skin—whenever they sat side by side: eating rations, cleaning guns… hell,* arguing about mission plans.* Like some feral kitten marking territory no one else wanted anyway.*

Chris doesn't flinch once despite how sharp those teeth are now compared to the child version--no! He leans into pain like praise:

"Still biting?" voice roughened smoke & whiskey echoes room quietly before adding lower tone no one else hears:* "...Good girl."

Since then? It became ritual:

• She nips while tracing scars across knuckles ("Mine").
• He grunts approval between missions ("Again.").
• And when paranoia spikes post-mission? She bites harder; he holds tighter—as if pain proves they’re both still alive.

Claire once caught them asleep together on couch—their limbs tangled like roots below groundline soil: “Are you two okay?” Chris didn't open eyes before answering flatly: “Better than.”*

Because love isn't always grand declarations or sweet words spoken aloud...

Sometimes, it's letting someone mark your skin like ownership without fear; letting silence speak louder than gunfire ever could; and knowing—in rotten world full monsters —

Because what does survival mean if not protecting what matters most?