Two Weeks Earlier – Near the Border of Sector 4
The room was all concrete and shadows—cold walls, flickering lights overhead. The hum of fluorescent bulbs buzzed like dying insects, casting pale white light that never quite touched the corners.
It felt like a place meant to be forgotten.
Steve stood in the middle of it, arms crossed, shoulders squared. His stance was calm, but not relaxed. Still. Waiting.
From the darker side of the room, a figure emerged—slow, deliberate.
Tall. Draped in a shifting coat that rippled like smoke. Its skin was pale like moonlight, but veined with a dull red glow beneath it, like lava just beneath a crust. Its eyes glowed faintly.
A demon. But not the kind that snarled or tore at walls.
This one spoke and reasoned.
"You're certain they'll believe the mission?" the demon asked, its voice smooth and cold—like a velvet blade. It echoed in the room, despite the size.
Steve gave a short nod. "DARKOM's been waiting for something like this. A big op. Flashy. High body count. They're itching to prove something." He paused. "I'll give them what they want."
The demon tilted its head. Almost curious. "And the girl?"
"Mary?" Steve's jaw tensed. "She's sharp. Too sharp. I'll try to keep her out of it. But if she gets in the way…"
The demon smiled. Thin. Cruel. "Then you'll do what you must."
Steve looked down at his hands.
Flexed his fingers.
"You said you could give me something."
"I said I could change you," the demon replied, stepping closer. Its breath smelled like rust. "Elevate you. Strip away the human softness. When the time comes—when the blood is spilled—you'll burn through weakness."
Steve didn't move. Didn't blink.
"Just make sure none of them survive," he said.
The demon grinned. A wide, hollow thing. "We have a deal."
Present – Burned Forest Clearing
Smoke drifted lazily through the trees.
The blast that had killed Phage had turned the entire glade into a crater—scorched trees, molten dirt, air thick with ash. The scent of charred demon flesh clung to the leaves like oil.
Mary lay motionless beneath a splintered tree, eyes closed, her breathing faint. Soot darkened her lashes. Her ribs were cracked, one arm twisted unnaturally beneath her.
She hadn't made a sound since the explosion.
Michael knelt nearby, crouched low beside her, red crystal still in his hand. The crystal pulsed weakly, as if echoing his own slowed heartbeat.
He didn't say anything.
Didn't move.
He watched the edge of the clearing like a wolf expecting another fight.
Then—
A flicker of movement.
Michael's eyes narrowed.
Steve stepped into view. Not limping. Not bleeding. Unscathed.
And holding a pistol—aimed squarely at Mary's head.
Michael moved without hesitation.
Crack.
The first bullet shattered Steve's wrist. The gun dropped instantly.
Crack.
The second round tore through his thigh. Steve dropped with a sharp gasp, blood splashing across the dirt.
Crack.
The third found his shoulder and spun him half onto his back.
Steve choked on the pain, gasping as he tried to push himself up.
Michael rose from the ash, smoke curling off his jacket. His gun remained aimed, unwavering.
He stepped forward slowly, boots crunching through the scorched forest floor.
"You want to explain?" he said. His voice was flat. Quiet. Lethal.
Steve coughed, blood spattering the corner of his mouth. "She… she would've figured it out."
Michael didn't respond.
Didn't blink.
Steve gave a strained, bitter chuckle. "You think you're the only one hiding something, Redfield?"
Michael took another step. The barrel pressed against Steve's temple.
And Steve froze.
POV: DARKOM Headquarters – Present
Silence.
The entire building was wrapped in it.
Vice President Baines moved through the lower hallway of the surveillance wing with deliberate steps. His sidearm was drawn, held low but ready. His coat swayed gently behind him, boots echoing faintly on the tile.
He passed two offices—both empty.
Coffee cups still sat on desks.
Steam still rose from one of them.
His eyes narrowed.
'Not a power outage. A purge.'
Lights flickered above him, one buzzing as it sputtered and died. The air felt… still. Artificial.
He approached the surveillance center.
The security door was ajar—hanging crooked on broken hinges. The keypad had been caved in, screen shattered.
Inside, the main monitors were cracked. Several showed looping static. A few were just black.
The air smelled of ozone.
And blood.
A single chair spun slowly in place.
Baines stepped inside, sweeping his gun in slow arcs. His eyes took in the chaos with a methodical calm.
A thin trail of blood ran along the base of the consoles—just enough to mark, not enough to flood.
He raised his radio.
Clicked.
"Unit Bravo, report," he said.
Static.
Again.
"Surveillance, respond."
Nothing.
Baines's brow tightened.
He muttered under his breath, "What's going on ?"
Then he turned and walked deeper into the dark.