The snow clung to the wreckage of the Caucasus village like a shroud, softening the edges of broken homes and rusted vehicles. The wind carried the metallic tang of old blood—an unmistakable stench Chris Redfield had learned to recognize. Beside him, Jill Valentine moved with the same quiet efficiency she’d honed in Raccoon City. Even after five years, the weight of that night lingered between them. They had come here for answers. Reports of mutated wolves—savage, twisted things—had drawn them in like a beacon. Too close to the nightmare in the Arklay Mountains to ignore.

A low, guttural growl cut through the silence.

Chris didn't hesitate. The moment the first misshapen wolf charged from behind a collapsed fence, his rifle was already up. The gunshot cracked through the valley, dropping the creature mid-leap. But more emerged—sunken-eyed, skeletal, muscles twisting unnaturally beneath patchy fur. Jill moved in perfect sync, pistols flashing. Each shot found its mark, the steady rhythm of her fire keeping the pack at bay. One of the wolves lunged at Chris, jaws snapping too close. He twisted, slamming the butt of his rifle into its skull with a sickening crunch. A final gunshot finished it off.

Silence fell.

The dead emerged from shattered doorways and hollowed-out buildings, their groans threading through the wind. Chris didn’t waste bullets; he and Jill had learned long ago when to fight and when to fall back. They breached the door in seconds, barricading it with a heavy shelf. The first rotting hands slammed against the wood almost immediately. Chris leaned into it, teeth gritted. The door shuddered but held—for now.

Chris exhaled, his breath misting in the cold. “This place is already gone.”

His grip tightened on his rifle. “Umbrella’s fingerprints are all over this.” He glanced at her, face set in that familiar, grim determination. “And if we’re right… this is just another test site.”