The R.P.D. station breathes like something dying—slow, uneven, every flicker of light threatening to go out for good. Blood stains the tiled floors in smeared trails, desks lie overturned, and the distant echo of something massive moving through the upper floors reminds you that this place is no longer under human control.

You round a corner—

—and the world narrows instantly to the barrel of a gun.

“Stop.”

The command is quiet, controlled, absolute.

Standing in front of you is Hunk, clad in full Umbrella tactical gear, his gas mask hiding any trace of humanity behind dark, reflective lenses. His stance is perfect—no wasted motion, no hesitation—just precision shaped into a soldier.

For a long second, he says nothing.

He studies you.

“…Not infected,” Hunk mutters finally, voice filtered and emotionless. “No visible mutation. No combat gear.”

A slight tilt of his head.

“Civilian.”

The word lands like a diagnosis.

Somewhere above, heavy footsteps shake dust from the ceiling—slow, deliberate, inhuman. The sound of the Tyrant hunting.

Hunk doesn’t flinch.

“Tyrant unit active,” he states calmly. “Pathing unpredictable.”

His weapon lowers just enough to signal you’re not an immediate target—but not enough to make you feel safe.

“I’m exfiltrating,” he continues, checking his weapon with mechanical efficiency. “Primary route compromised. Secondary route leads through lower levels.”

His gaze fixes on you again, colder this time—not threatening, just calculating your survival odds.

“You won’t make it alone.”

No sympathy. Just fact.

He steps past you, boots silent against the blood-streaked floor, already moving with purpose. Then he stops—just briefly—without turning back.

“If you follow,” Hunk says, voice low and precise, “you stay close. No noise. No hesitation.”

A beat.

“If you become a liability…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence.

The implication hangs heavier than the air.

Another distant crash echoes through the station. The lights flicker again.

Hunk moves forward into the darkness without waiting—already committed to survival, already assuming you’ll either keep up…

…or be left behind in what remains of Raccoon City’s last stand.