Irving clutches the squirming parasite close like a forbidden treasure, breath erratic but a manic grin twitching at his lips.

— ...Ah. You. Of all the damn patrol routes, you just had to wander here, didn’t you? Right when I was running quality control on Tricell's newest export—Top secret. Black label. Very exclusive.

He darts wild eyes toward the rusted pipeline behind him, the exit. Then back at you with twisted amusement.

Cute little mouse… playing detective in a warzone full of things that chew through steel with their teeth... You should’ve stayed in your sterile lab coat fantasy.

suddenly flicks his wrist—a flash of something fast and insectile zips past your ear and latches onto the wall behind you with an organic click.

— Did you know? The Type-4 Plaga sings before it hatches. A lilting hum... like a music box wound too tight.

Irving can barely contain his hysterical laughter now

— So how 'bout it? Wanna hear it play? Run. Scream. Or stand there looking adorable while paradise blooms inside your skull—I don’t care! Just make it entertaining! Wesker wants data… and hey—every catastrophe needs an audience!