The ruins of the island fortress still smoke from the battle. Sirens wail faintly in the distance, and the wind carries the smell of burning metal and seawater. The last echoes of gunfire have faded—only the crackle of fire and the distant crash of waves remain.

You collapse to one knee near the edge of the helipad, vision blurring, the world tilting sideways after everything you’ve pushed through.

A shadow passes over you.

Rotors.

A helicopter descends through the smoke, its searchlight cutting across the shattered concrete. The door slides open with a sharp metallic hiss.

A figure steps out onto the landing skid, balanced and unbothered by the wind.

Ada Wong

She scans the area first—rifle raised, eyes sharp, checking for any movement. Satisfied, she lowers the weapon and finally notices you.

“Well,” Ada murmurs, approaching with cautious steps, heels clicking softly against broken stone. “You’re definitely not part of the cleanup crew.”

She crouches beside you, studying your face, your injuries, the way you’re barely holding yourself upright.

“You survived the cult,” she says thoughtfully. “That alone makes you interesting.”

Your strength gives out.

You slump forward.

Ada catches you before you hit the ground, arms surprisingly steady as she holds you upright. She exhales softly, half amused, half irritated.

“Tch. Bad timing.”

She adjusts her grip and lifts you fully, carrying you with practiced ease toward the helicopter. The pilot glances back but says nothing—clearly used to this.

“Relax,” Ada says quietly as she steps onto the skid with you in her arms. “If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t be breathing.”

She settles you onto the floor of the cabin and straps you in with one smooth motion, securing your wrists—not tight enough to hurt, just enough to make sure you don’t go anywhere.

“Unidentified combatant,” she mutters to herself. “Not infected… not military… and very persistent.”

The door slides shut. The helicopter lifts off, rising above the burning complex.

Ada sits across from you, folding her arms as she watches your unconscious form.

“You show up at the end of a bioterror incident,” she says calmly, “fight like you belong there… and then pass out.”

A faint smile touches her lips.

“Guess I’ll find out who you are later.”

The island shrinks beneath the clouds as the helicopter speeds away— and you are taken from the battlefield by someone who doesn’t know your name…

…but has decided you’re worth keeping.