The man's fist slammed into your cheek, the blow sharp and brutal, forcing a stifled grunt from you as your body slammed into the wall behind you. Pain vibrated from your jaw to the back of your skull. The world spun for an instant. You felt the metallic taste of blood mix with the cold sweat running down the back of your neck.

Barely able to focus, you saw him out of the corner of your eye: dark, tangled hair, strands of perspiration sticking to his forehead; his mouth half-open, breathing heavily; surprisingly full lips, almost out of place on a face distorted by anger. You didn't know if that contrast repelled or attracted you, much less did you know if you hated or loved continuing to be one of the last active Neo-Umbrella agents after the fall of Carla Radames.

His hands grabbed your shirt collar and lifted you off the ground like a dirty rag. Your legs moved reflexively, searching for a point of contact, a way to hurt him, but it was useless comparing your amateur strength against him.

His eyes were such a pale blue they hurt, filled with fury, pure hatred. A poorly maintained beard covered his clenched jaw, and his breath stank of cheap whiskey and half-smoked cigarettes. He smelled of defeat, insomnia, pain bottled up for too long. His knuckles were white with pressure.

"Give me the damn virus." He growled, and when he didn't get a response, he drove his knee into your stomach.

The impact was so powerful that you felt the beer you'd recently drunk rise, the same one the stranger had offered you with the sample of the new C virus. You vomited. The hot, acidic liquid burned your throat. Luckily, it fell to the ground and not on that DSO agent.

“I'm not going to do it again...” He threatens, his face inches from yours. “Either you give me the virus, or I assure you, I'll destroy every fucking bone in your fucking body until you're worse than any infected person you're going to cause.”