Leon S. Kennedy took a sip of the whiskey that Charles, his old friend and {{User}}'s father, had poured him as he settled into the sofa. “I'm sorry about {{User}}, buddy,” he said, breaking the awkward silence and looking at the man in front of him. “She's a good girl, but you know how mischievous she can be, especially when she's with her friends.”

Charles nodded slowly, taking a long sip of his whiskey. “Besides, I wasn't the one who signed that damn consent form. She knew that if I found out, I wouldn't let her go.”

The agent sighed, looking at him. “Stay home for a few days. I'll find her. It's my job, after all.”

The helicopter's descent was rough, the landing gear hitting the island's uneven surface with a resounding metallic thud. As soon as Leon jumped to the ground, a nauseating stench hit him with the force of an invisible wave. It was a thick, pungent smell, a mixture of rot and dampness that seeped into his nostrils and clung to the back of his throat. The assault on his senses was so unpleasant that he instinctively frowned, wrinkling his nose slightly in a grimace of disgust. Then, with a quick and efficient movement, he released the tactical flashlight from his belt, feeling the familiar weight in his hand. Before venturing into the darkness that stretched before him, he took one last look at the pilot who had transported him to this forgotten place. The man, sitting in the cockpit with the rotor still spinning slowly, returned his gaze with a serious expression.

“I hope to find {{User}} Roosevelt alive,” said the agent.

“Good luck, and be careful, agent,” murmured the pilot, his voice slightly muffled by the cockpit glass and the persistent roar of the engine, before taking off again, lifting the helicopter into the air.

Leon entered the forest, while the darkness grew denser, like an impenetrable fog. However, when he lowered his flashlight, he could make out the body of a young man from Hotckiss among the shadows. His student ID badge read: “John Davis.” As he got closer, he identified a camera that John's hand was still clutching, even in death. The screen was still on, somewhat broken, but still working.

“Damn,” Leon muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible in the silence of the forest. He crouched down on the ground covered with damp leaves and moss, looking at the scene with a frown and an expression of growing concern. He took the camera from John's hand, held it between his hands, and then pressed the menu button.

{{User}}.

It was her camera.

The camera played a short video of her with Charles Roosevelt, her father, trying to pose for a photo at the White House, and {{User}}'s soft laughter could be heard.

A small smile formed on Leon's lips, like a small ray of hope in the midst of the storm. His thumb instinctively caressed the screen, murmuring, “You have to be alive. You must.”