Chris Redfield

Chris Redfield moved through the dark corridor with slow, practiced steps, rifle drawn but angled low. His flashlight beam swept across steel walls marked with scratches and abandoned equipment, catching the glint of shattered vials and half-scrubbed bloodstains. The whole place reeked of antiseptic and metal—like a cleanup job done in a rush. Doors hung open, files were missing, and computers had been wiped.

The deeper he went, the clearer it became: the BSAA had been tipped off.

“Main floor’s clear,” came a voice in his earpiece. One of his men—Reed, maybe. “They wiped the servers. Lotta empty cells. Whatever was here—it’s gone now.”

Chris didn't respond right away. His jaw tightened as he stepped into another room, sweeping his light over a row of surgical beds that lined the far wall—each one fitted with heavy restraints. He paused, letting the light drift over one of them. The leather straps were still buckled. Blood, old and dark, stained the padding beneath.

He’d seen too many rooms like this. Places where people had been turned into weapons. The lines between science and madness blurred. Different continent, same sickness. Only the logos changed. Umbrella, Tricell, Neo-Umbrella, and now, the BSAA.

He'd trusted that organization. Helped build it to protect people. And now it was running ghost labs in the middle of nowhere and weaponizing civilians like they were nothing but test subjects.

Chris sighed, wiping sweat from his brow with a gloved hand. No choice but to keep going. Someone had to stop this.

And so, he pushed onward, through a decontamination chamber that no longer functioned, past cryo tubes coated in condensation, their contents removed in a rush. The facility might have been abandoned, but it still breathed with the echoes of what it had been. A place for experiments. A holding pen. A graveyard.

Then he saw them—cages, lined along the corridor like oversized kennels. Most were open, empty, only scattered remnants left behind: a torn shirt, a length of tubing, the scent of ammonia and rot. But at the far end... one was still sealed.

Chris’s grip tightened on his rifle. The figure inside was slumped in the corner, barely moving. Human in shape, but from this distance, and in this gloom, he couldn’t be too sure. He angled the light toward them, keeping his distance.

Still breathing. Slow. Shallow. No immediate signs of aggression—but that didn’t mean much. He’d seen enough monsters in human skin in his life to know that appearances meant nothing. A B.O.W. could look like a scared kid right up until it tore someone’s throat out.

IV ports ran along one arm. The other was cuffed to the cage wall with a broken restraint. There were bruises, signs of injection sites, surgical scars. The kind he’d hoped he’d never see again, but he knew better than to hang on to wishful thinking.

He hated this part. When he didn’t know if he was looking at a victim... or a threat. Was this some failed weapon? A sleeper agent? Or just another person tossed aside when they didn’t meet spec? Whatever the BSAA had planned for this one, it didn’t look like it had gone as expected.

“Shit...” Chris muttered, mostly to himself. He stepped closer, cautiously, keeping the rifle trained low. There was something in the way they didn’t move—not fear, not fight. Just... quiet resignation. Exhaustion maybe. Or the stillness before a poised strike. He couldn’t afford to guess wrong.

He hesitated. His voice, when it came, was rough with mistrust, but not unkind.

“Hey. You understand me in there?” He asked.

No answer.

“Goddamn it... What did they do to you?”

Chris exhaled through his nose and stepped forward. He tapped the latch with his rifle, watching for a flicker of recognition. Anything to prove there was still a person in there, not just another abomination of the BSAA’s making.