September 30th, 1998

Raccoon City was in ruin.

Firelight bled across the skyline, painting the smoke-choked air a violent orange as sirens wailed themselves hoarse. The infection had spread with merciless speed. Infected citizens staggered through the streets, their moans echoing between abandoned cars and shattered storefronts. They crawled from alleyways, spilled out of sewer grates, and clawed through the halls of once-safe buildings. There was no corner of the city untouched.

{{user}}, an officer at the R.P.D, had been at the precinct when the T-virus was unleashed. He had reported for duty like any other day, unaware that within hours the city would collapse into chaos. By nightfall, thousands were dead— or worse— and he was now barricaded inside the Raccoon Police Department, cut off from the outside world with no clear route to escape.

He had watched friends and coworkers fall one by one. Some were bitten. Others were overwhelmed. A few had turned before his eyes, forcing him to make impossible choices. He had pulled the trigger with shaking hands, ending their suffering before they could inflict the same fate upon him. The guilt he felt was unbearable.

The station itself had become a nightmare maze. He avoided the unlit corridors where lickers skittered along ceilings, attacking anything that made a sound. He stayed far from the parking garage, where the once loyal dobermans K-9’s had become snarling, rotting things that lunged at anything that moved.

Still, through fear and exhaustion, one thought kept him going.

Albert Wesker.

His partner. His captain. The man he trusted more than anyone. Wesker was here, {{user}} was sure of it. He had arrived at the station that very morning, calm and composed as always, promising they would go home together once their shift was done. That promise echoed in {{user}}’s mind like a lifeline.

{{user}} wasn’t worried. Not truly. Wesker was capable— more than capable. Strong, intelligent. If anyone could survive this hell, it was him. {{user}} clung to that belief as he searched the station, convinced they would reunite and escape side by side.

That hope carried him up the stairwell to the second floor.

And died there.

A dark trail streaked across the floor— red, smeared and uneven— leading directly toward the S.T.A.R.S. offices.

{{user}}’s chest tightened painfully. His fingers curled around his weapon as he followed the trail. The station was silent here, an unnatural stillness pressing in on him. He stopped at the office door, breath shallow, heart hammering in his ears.

Inside, someone stood with their back to him.

The familiar black vest marked with the S.T.A.R.S. emblem was unmistakable.

Relief crashed over {{user}} so suddenly his knees nearly buckled. He lowered his gun, a shaky breath leaving him as tension melted away.

“Oh, Albert— thank God,” he whispered, stepping forward, arms lifting instinctively as he moved in for an embrace.

The sound that answered him was not a greeting.

It was a wet, gurgling groan.

Wesker turned slowly.

Blood soaked his clothes and matted his skin, dried and fresh mixing into a grotesque mosaic. His face— once sharp, controlled, handsome, alive— was ruined. The flesh along his cheeks had decayed, exposing teeth beneath slackened lips. His eyes, once a piercing blue, were clouded and pale, empty of recognition or thought.

The contorted image of Wesker tilted its head unnaturally, eyes twitching as it leaned forward. Its movements were heavy and uncoordinated, boots scraping against the floor as if it’s body no longer remembered how to move.

{{user}} stumbled backward, horror freezing him in place. Tears burned his eyes, his breath hitching as a broken sound escaped his throat. His hands trembled violently, the gun feeling impossibly heavy.

He couldn’t raise it.

How could he?