July 24, 1998 – 22:48 hours
The main hall was cathedral-like, its vaulted ceilings vanishing into shadow. The grand staircase, lined with intricate oak balusters, split into two wings that vanished into darkness. Old oil paintings lined the walls, some faded, others defaced with long, diagonal claw marks. The ticking of an ancient grandfather clock was the only sound—steady, ominous.
Jill took a cautious step forward, her boots echoing softly against the marble. "This place is... too clean."
Chris nodded. "No cobwebs. No decay. Someone's been maintaining it."
Barry, kneeling by the door, pressed his hand against the wood. "Those things—those dogs—they didn't follow us in."
"They're not stupid," Chris muttered. "They're trained... or conditioned."
"No way regular dogs act like that," Barry added. "That wasn't natural."
Jill's eyes scanned the walls. Every door seemed to hold a secret. She felt it in her bones—this place wasn't just a house. It was a tomb.
"Where's Wesker?" she asked again.
"Gone," Chris said. "And Joseph's dead."
"We don't know that."
Chris turned to her, voice flat. "We do."
The tension was thick, suffocating. But before anyone could speak again, Barry's radio crackled with static.
—zchhk... Bravo Team... is anyone—zchhhhk—alive?
Barry pulled it from his belt. "This is Alpha Team. We're in a mansion near the crash site. Who is this?"
No response.
"Damn it." Barry cursed under his breath and stood up. "We're blind. Radios are getting interference. Either the place is messing with the signal, or someone's jamming it."
Chris made a decision.
"We split up. Jill, you check the dining room. I'll sweep the west wing. Barry—stay here, watch the entrance. If Wesker finds his way in, we need someone to meet him."
Barry hesitated. "You sure about splitting up?"
"No," Chris said. "But we're running blind. We need intel."
Dining Room – 1F West Wing
22:55 hours
The door creaked open on rusted hinges.
Jill stepped inside, weapon raised. The dining room was old but lavish. A long table stretched down the center, covered in dusty silverware and rotting place settings. A broken candelabra lay on the floor, wax dried like spilled blood.
The ticking was louder here—coming from a massive grandfather clock set into the stone wall. It read 11:55, though it hadn't struck the hour.
Jill moved carefully, scanning the corners. Then she froze.
There were footprints in the dust. Human. Fresh.
She followed them past the dining table, toward a smaller door on the side.
It led to a narrow passage, dark and lined with damp stone. The scent of mildew and something else—metallic and sour—clung to the air.
And there, at the end of the corridor, was a body.
Kneeling beside it, Jill found a familiar face.
Kenneth Sullivan. Bravo Team's chemical expert.
His throat was torn wide open. Torn—not cut. Jagged, deep gouges stretched from ear to clavicle. His expression was frozen in horror, his fingers curled around his pistol—but it was empty.
Something had killed him up close. Fast. Brutal.
Jill stood up slowly—and then she heard it.
A slow, wet sound. Like meat being chewed.
She turned.
At the far end of the corridor, half-shrouded in shadow, something moved.
It was human—or had been. It wore tattered STARS fatigues. But its skin was gray, peeling. The eyes were glassy, white. Blood coated its chin and hands.
It turned its head slowly, jaws opening with a low groan that bubbled like rot from the lungs.
Jill backed up, gun raised. "Stop. Don't move."
The thing stepped forward.
She fired once. A shot to the chest. It flinched but kept walking.
Two more shots. No effect.
The fourth went into its head—and only then did it crumple backward in a twitching heap.
Breathing hard, Jill stared at it. "That's not possible…"
Then she ran.
Back in the Main Hall – 23:02 hours
Barry looked up as the door slammed open. Jill burst in, face pale, breathing hard.
"What happened?"
"Bravo Team's Kenneth," she said. "He's dead. Throat ripped open. And there was something in there... it wasn't human anymore."
Barry stiffened.
"What do you mean not human?"
"It was... like it was dead. But it moved. I shot it four times and it still kept coming."
Barry gritted his teeth. "God help us."
Jill looked around. "Where's Chris?"
Barry's eyes widened. "He left to check the west side—"
They both moved at once.
Meanwhile – West Wing Hallway
23:05 hours
Chris was already deep inside the west corridors.
The mansion was a maze. Antique armor stood in display alcoves. Moonlight filtered through dusty windows, casting skeletal shadows. Every door was locked or jammed. Every corridor led to another puzzle.
And then he heard the moan.
He raised his pistol.
Two figures stumbled into view—both wearing tattered Umbrella lab coats. One had only half a face. The other dragged a broken leg behind it.
Chris didn't hesitate. He fired three rounds.
They fell—but the moaning didn't stop.
Because there were more.
Shadows moved behind them. Three... no, four. More than he could count.
His mind raced. They weren't just infected—they were coordinated. Moving together.
He turned and ran.