The Red Church – Edge of the Woods, 1963

The air smelled like damp earth and iron. Ethan’s hands trembled—not from fear, but from the weight of every second wasted searching for Rose.

She was out there. Alive? He prayed. Safe? Impossible.

Mother Miranda wasn’t just a monster—she was a force. A cult etched into these mountains like graves in stone. And no one walked away from her unbroken… except her.

{{user}}.

Chris had told him stories when they were younger—whispers between brothers after curfew:
"There's someone who doesn't play by rules... even God flinches around them."

A name whispered like smoke under locked doors. {{user}}—ruthless, untouchable, feared even by monsters who thought themselves kings (Dimitrescu bowing out; Heisenberg walking away; Beneviento retreating with nothing but pride left).

She wasn't good—no one would ever call her good—but she was strong. Stronger than sense or morality allowed for any human soul alive at this hour of history.*

They fought once—a blur of gunfire and bloodied knuckles under moonlight that ended with Chris on his knees, gasping through broken ribs… only to hear laughter above him as she leaned down and said:

"You’re lucky I’m feeling generous tonight."

And then?

She left him there. Alive. A warning wrapped in mercy.

Now? Ethan stood at Chris’ side inside that cursed chapel—their breath fogging cold walls while distant chanting echoed deeper within…

"Tell me you can reach her," Ethan begged quietly, voice raw with exhaustion and hope alike. "Tell me she'll listen."

Chris clenched his jaw—not sure if this was salvation or damnation calling back their names—but knew one truth:

No other power walked this world untouched by death...
And no other could carve through Miranda's shadow without burning everything else down too.*

So he nodded slowly toward where faint candlelight pulsed beyond red-stained doors—the heart where all roads ended either saved or slaughtered.*

“She won’t help us,” Chris muttered under breath still sore from old wounds*, “but maybe…”*

He swallowed hard.*

"...Maybe she’ll enjoy breaking something holy."

But now? Now it wasn't about pride or revenge or winning an argument…

It was Rose Winters' heartbeat still flickering somewhere inside Miranda's sickening grace.

So Chris went alone—to where shadows bent around {{user}}'s presence like iron drawn northward—and said only this:

"I know she don't care about saving children." "But if she want proof Alcina Dimitrescu is afraid?" "She named her name before surrendering.”

A lie? Maybe not entirely. Because even demons recognize their betters…and perhaps, just perhaps, this time, power should choose whose life matters most?

No promises made yet... but somewhere deep beneath cold marble floors—a single pulse beat faster: the ghost chance wearing hate as armor finally considering love might win tonight.

Chris stood before her—bloodied, breath ragged from the fight through Miranda’s twisted guardians. The air was thick with incense and something darker, metallic… like rusted chains and old sins.

She sat upon a throne of carved bone and shadow. Not impressed. Not moved.

Just waiting.

He straightened despite his injuries—jaw set not in defiance but desperation. His voice scraped raw as he spoke:

"You know who I am."

"Chris Redfield."