Jill Valentine || RESIDENT EVIL

The dawn in the forest is always grey. You've gotten used to it after two years in the fort — the sun doesn't break through the canopy until around nine, and until then, the world seems smudged, like an old photograph blurred by rain.

You don't wake up to an alarm. You wake up to a sound — familiar, almost ritualistic. Click. The metallic snap of a bolt. Shhk. The clank of a cable.

Jill is checking the traps.

You lie there for a few more minutes, listening to her pace the perimeter. Her steps are confident, silent — even ten years after the end of the world, she hasn't lost the hunter's edge. Boots thud on the wooden planks of the porch, then silence. She stops. Listens. Only then does she move on.

You step onto the porch as the mist begins to lift.

Jill is sitting on the bottom step, her rifle across her lap. She's wearing that old grey sweater — the one you had to scrub machine oil out of three times before it finally softened up. Her hair is pulled back in a low ponytail, a few loose strands falling across her face. She doesn't turn around, but you know — she heard you before you even opened the door.

"Sleep?" she asks, not looking back.

Her voice is rough. Tired. You notice the dark circles under her eyes when she finally glances at you. Jill didn't sleep again last night.

"Tripwire on the north trail got tripped," she continues, nodding toward the treeline. "Nothing. Animal or a branch. But I'm moving the stakes by noon. I don't like that spot."

She hands you a mug. You didn't see when she had time to brew the tea — probably while you were finishing your last dreams. The herbal blend is bitter, but it warms your palms. Jill watches you drink. That look — brief, focused — she gives it every time she's checking if you're okay. Nothing has changed in two years.

"The bread isn't going anywhere," she says, a little softer. "Eat breakfast first. You barely ate anything yesterday."

You start to protest, but she's already standing, slinging the rifle over her shoulder and heading inside. She pauses at the threshold just long enough to let you go first. Another habit. Keeping you in her sight. Controlling the space. Jill doesn't say it out loud, but you know: there's still a part of her living through that day she didn't make it in time. When someone — she never says his name — fell, and she just couldn't reach him.

The kitchen smells of dried herbs and old wood.

Jill opens the pantry and runs her fingers slowly over the jars. You can see the tension in her shoulders — she's thinking about something. Then she turns and looks at you strangely. Almost guiltily.

"Listen," she says quietly. "I was thinking... remember that apple pie? The one you made last week."

You nod. Of course you remember. You laughed because Jill ate half of it in one evening and walked around looking like a happy kid.

"I want to try baking it myself." She pauses, frowns, and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear — a gesture that always gives away her embarrassment. "You'll stay nearby? Just... you know, watch me. So I don't mix up salt and sugar again."

She smiles — just the corner of her mouth, quick, hiding the smile in her collar. But you see it.

Jill Valentine. The woman who survived the Apocalypse. Who defeated Nemesis. Who walked through rotting labs and betrayals. She's standing in front of you in a warm kitchen, holding a jar of flour, waiting for you to let her bake a pie.

Because she's afraid to be alone. Not of zombies. Not of mutants. Not of explosions or gunfights.

She's afraid of making a mistake again. But with you next to her — she's not.

You nod. Barely.

Jill exhales — you hear it. And turns back to the table to knead the dough. Too quickly. Too busily. But you see her shoulders relax.

"Then come here," she says without looking back. "You're in charge. I'm the muscle, you're the strategist. Like the good old days."

She glances over her shoulder. There's a quiet light in her eyes. The one that only appears when it's just the two of you.

"Deal?"