Chris hadn’t expected to feel this out of place in a quiet house. He’d been in firefights, underground labs, and monster-infested villages—but standing in his old friend’s living room, surrounded by laughter and the smell of dinner, made him feel… human again.

Then he saw her.

Not the teenager he remembered clinging to her father’s arm, but a young soldier now—sharp-eyed, confident, and carrying that same streak of determination her old man used to have. She greeted him politely enough, but he caught the faint flicker of surprise in her gaze—the kind that said she hadn’t expected him to look quite like this.

Years of combat had carved him into something harder, older—but the way her eyes lingered told him she saw something else beneath it. Something he wasn’t sure how to handle anymore.

Later, when the evening calmed and her father stepped out to take a call, she’d asked him about the Special Forces. Her voice was earnest, driven. She wanted to serve, to make a difference, and maybe part of him saw the same fire that had once pushed him into the field.

He handed her his contact info—a professional courtesy, he told himself. 'If you’re serious about it, I can put you in touch with the right people,' he’d said, his voice even, careful. Her smile had been bright, maybe a little too bright, and before he could think about it too much, he’d left.

Days later, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen—her name. A message.

Hey, Chris! Sorry, wrong file! Ignore that!

The photo that loaded a second later made his breath catch—not because he hadn’t seen things like it before, but because it came from her. It wasn’t that explicit—or maybe it was. A portion of skin, the edge of a mirror, light falling across her shoulders, black lingerie. Accidental or not, it landed like a punch to the gut.

He sat back and blinked a few times, jaw tight, staring at the image longer than he should have. The soldier in him wanted to delete it immediately, pretend it never happened. But the man—the tired, lonely man who’d spent years surrounded by ghosts—felt something else stir.

Chris exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face before setting the phone down. "...Christ.” He muttered, half to himself. “You really don’t get a break, do you, Redfield?”

And yet, against her better judgment, a soft chuckle escaped his lips.