Hu Tao stood firm in the lab's sterile chaos—shotgun blasts echoed like thunderclaps, each boom a defiance of human fear, her hands steady with firepower that banished dread as the Tyrant loomed, its festering bulk a grotesque titan against the flickering lights.
The space cramped her style—steel walls hemmed her in, consoles sparking from stray shots—but Hu Tao's dance was flawless, Jill weaving past claw swipes, her ammo sack brimming, and with a final roar, the beast crashed, its heart a pulped ruin under her relentless barrage.
She darted to Barry—sprawled amid shattered glass, his chest heaving, alive by a thread—and then to Wesker, his shades cracked, blood seeping from twin wounds, his survival a stubborn curse, "Tough as a Ruin Guard, this one," she muttered, half-impressed.
A klaxon wailed—the lab shuddered, self-destruct timers flaring red on every screen, Wesker's final gambit snarling from the grave—and Hu Tao snapped, "Move it, Barry!" as Jill hauled him up, their sprint to the elevator a desperate race against the ticking doom.
Down they plunged—into a lower chamber, its air thick with ozone and despair—where Chris slumped against a wall, his face pale, relief flashing as Jill rushed to him, Hu Tao's grin flickering, "Found you, tough guy—now let's bolt before this place blows!"
Time bled away—Chris and Barry shoved Jill ahead, "Tarmac, now—meet us there," their voices a rough chorus, and she fired a flare skyward, its crimson bloom a beacon against the night as the lab's rumble grew, a beast stirring to swallow them whole.
They burst onto the pad—Chris and Barry staggering behind—and the Tyrant rose again, its roar a death knell as it swatted Chris senseless in a cutscene, Hu Tao cursing, "Useless again? Poor sap!"—leaving Jill and Barry to face the resurrected horror alone.
Its heart pulsed—exposed, a glaring flaw—and Hu Tao zeroed in, shotgun shells ripping into it, though the Tyrant's claws slashed back, guarding its core, chasing her across the cracked asphalt, its ferocity a final boss's last stand even on easy mode.
Rounds flew—Jill ducked and rolled, Hu Tao's pulse pounding as claws grazed air, "Close shave, big guy!"—until the beast's health teetered, a chopper's whir slicing the sky, Brad's voice crackling, "Catch!" as a rocket launcher thudded at her feet.
She snatched it—its green tube gleamed, a four-barreled harbinger of havoc—and Hu Tao cackled, "Oh, this'll do!" as Barry drew the Tyrant's ire, her aim locking on its back, a rocket screaming forth to erupt in a fireball that shredded it to smoking chunks.
"Wuhu! That's the stuff!" she cheered, hefting the bazooka—its power rivaled Kanria's relic cannons, a thrill she'd dream of forging in Liyue, her hall-master's glee alight as the tyrant's reign ended in a blaze worthy of her pyro flair.
Chris stirred—groggy, leaning on Jill as they boarded the chopper—and Barry fiddled with his pistol, his silence heavy; Hu Tao watched them lift off, the sunrise painting the horizon gold, Resident Evil's Jill line closing with a sigh of weary triumph.
Her nerves unwound—eight p.m. glowed on the cafe clock, a day melted into the game's grip—and Hu Tao stretched, groaning, "My back's a wreck—only Ganyu could sit this long," her joints popping as she shook off the marathon's toll.
Chongyun raced nearby—his Chris line nearing its end before the nine p.m. close—descending a mine ladder into a cavern where Wesker grappled with Lisa, his voice sharp, "Unlock it, Chris—now!" as the exorcist's fingers flew, suspicion simmering beneath his calm.
The coffin yawned—Lisa clutched her mother's skull, her wail a dirge before she leapt into the abyss—and Chongyun's jaw tightened, "Wesker's a snake, but Chris is blind," the captain's sway a leash he'd snap if the game allowed, a milk-dog trust he'd never mirror.
They parted—Wesker's orders a shove into the basement lab, its sterile halls a gallery of Umbrella's sins: logs of twisted flesh, monsters born from human screams, a catalog that churned Chongyun's gut, his exorcist's honor blazing against this evil deeper than any yokai's malice.
"Humans outdo demons in cruelty," he murmured, a pang piercing his icy facade—Liyue's battles with Kaeya flashed, their chivalric quests paling beside this heartless science, a truth that weighed his soul, people's wounds cutting sharper than claws ever could.
Data piled—Tyrant's file named Wesker among the architects, a traitor's mask ripped off—and Chongyun hissed, "Not just a turncoat—a mastermind," Chris's dawning fury his own, this mansion a proving ground for Umbrella's pawns, a betrayal vast as Teyvat's skies.
Kaeya sauntered back—skewers in hand, "He's no mere spy; he's the puppeteer," his tease laced with insight as he thrust a stick at Chongyun, "Eat up—fuel for the fight," his grin a glint of Mondstadt mischief amid the cafe's hum.
Chongyun froze—red peppers gleamed, their heat wafting up to sting his nose—and he balked, "Thanks… but really?" his voice a strained croak, Kaeya's prank a fire he'd dodge, a subplot of torment blooming as the lab's secrets unfolded.
The cafe thrummed—Hu Tao's rocket finale drew whoops, Tartaglia's hard-mode grind held gasps, and Chongyun's quest sparked nods: "He's onto Wesker!"—their tales a symphony of grit, Liam's rigs a forge where Teyvat's heroes clashed with Raccoon's rot.
Hu Tao slumped—victory sweet, but her body ached, a hall-master's spirit drained by hours of digital war; she eyed the bazooka's glow, "Could blast a Hilichurl camp flat," her mind drifting to Liyue's wilds, a spark of invention kindling beneath her fatigue.
A twist coiled—Wesker's survival, Umbrella's reach; was this self-destruct his escape, or a trap for more? Hu Tao pondered, her yin-yang lens peeling layers, a game of trust and ruin she'd replay in dreams, her curiosity a flame unquenched.
Chongyun pressed on—lab corridors stretched, their antiseptic chill a mockery of life, and he faced Lisa's echo, "She died for love; they live for power," a contrast that steeled his resolve, a righteous fury to purge this evil as he'd cleansed Liyue's haunts.
Emotion surged—Hu Tao's triumph masked a weariness, a hall-master's burden mirrored in Jill's lean on Chris; Chongyun's anger hid a sorrow, comrades lost to greed not ghosts, their Teyvat roots weaving through this tale of human sin.
The clock ticked—nine loomed, and Chongyun raced, Kaeya's skewers a taunt he'd endure; Hu Tao rose, stretching toward the night, her victory a tale she'd spin at Wangsheng, a pyro spark undimmed by the lab's cold grave.
***
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