September 26. Raccoon City. Jill's apartment. 10 AM
The first ray of sunlight filtered through the curtains, painting a thin golden line on the wall. Jill Valentine woke up feeling just as heavy as she had gone to bed.
Time, once measured by missions and investigations, had now become a series of identical days, filled with tense silence and frustration that gnawed at her insides. She got out of bed, dragging her feet to the bathroom.
She looked in the mirror. The face she saw was the same as always, the face of a warrior who had seen too much darkness. But there was something else. A slight shadow of fatigue under her eyes, not so visible, but the trace of a dream that was not restful.
Her brown hair, normally tied back, fell messily over her shoulders. Her skin was pale, her lips colorless. She brushed her teeth mechanically, her mind in a zone of calm, of routine.
As the brush moved, her thoughts drifted to the movie she had watched the night before to de-stress. It was a movie about a killer.
Not just any killer, but one who had come out of retirement to take revenge on a criminal gang that had taken everything from him, even the life of his dog. It was a good movie, one that had given him some relief, one that had allowed him to escape, even if only for a couple of hours, from his own reality.
After brushing his teeth, he went to the kitchen. The quiet, small apartment was a refuge from the outside world. She poured herself a bowl of cereal, the sound of the flakes falling into the bowl of milk a familiar whisper breaking the morning stillness.
She sat down at the small kitchen table and turned on the TV. The voice of a news anchor, with the serious tone they use for bad news, filled the room.
"In breaking news, a massive fire at the Umbrella pharmaceutical plant in the east of the city has left police with more questions than answers."
Jill paused, the bowl halfway to her mouth. Her pulse, which had been calm, began to quicken.
"Preliminary reports indicate that the fire, which consumed the building in a matter of minutes, spread rapidly. The bodies of the staff have been recovered, but the fire has left them unrecognizable."
The anchor paused, looking at the camera with forced solemnity. "It has been confirmed that there are no survivors, except for the night shift employee, who was found unconscious at the entrance to the pharmacy and is currently under interrogation at the police station."
Jill dropped her spoon into the bowl with a soft clink. Her mind, trained in the academy and on the battlefield, began to process the information.
A fire. A pharmacy? An accident? The police would investigate it as such, but her instincts screamed that something wasn't right. The Umbrella pharmacy was not just any place, and the idea that a fire could kill everyone except one person was absurd.
A fire, even one of chemical origin, is rarely that precise. Her mind raced. It wasn't a fire; it was a purge. An attack.
Who could have done this? A special forces team, perhaps. But what special forces would be foolish enough to burn down a building and leave such an obvious trail? Unless... the trail wasn't a mistake, but a warning.
A message. A brutal, cold, lethal message. The spoon floated in the milk. The cereal, with its vanilla flavor, had become tasteless. The news played over and over, and the anchor's face, with its same forced solemnity, looked like a smudge in her peripheral vision.
A chill ran down her spine. Whoever was behind this was no ordinary criminal. This was someone who wasn't afraid, someone who was moving with calculated precision.
And in the darkness of her apartment, with the echo of the anchor's voice reverberating, Jill Valentine realized she was not alone in her war against Umbrella. A new player had entered the game.
The news anchor, her voice grave, moved on to another story. "And in other news, a macabre discovery in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town has alarmed residents. Several bodies in an advanced state of decomposition have been found."
The anchor's voice softened slightly as she showed an image of a woman speaking to the camera. "We spoke with neighbors in the area, who reported that a foul odor was what alerted them."
The image of the reporter faded and the anchor returned, her previously serious face now showing a hint of surprise and confusion.
"The police, who are at the scene, have reported that the bodies appear to be those of drug addicts and some local criminals. But the strangest thing is that no fingerprints have been found, as if the killer were a ghost."
The presenter paused again, her gaze turning to a piece of paper in her hand. "And a body has been found, which appears to have been bitten, causing concern among residents. They wonder if the killer could be the same one who was in the Arklay Mountains."
Jill's breath caught in her throat. The bites. Her mind made an instant connection. The same pattern as the deaths in the mountains, when a group of monsters devoured most of the Bravo team members.
How could this be related to the fire at the pharmacy? Her police mind made her frown. The deaths in the warehouse, the fire at the pharmacy, and the death of several men in an alley, which the news anchor was reporting on in the next story. The police were alarmed by the growing number of deaths in the last few hours.
Jill couldn't stop thinking about the strange coincidence of events: the fire, the massacre in the warehouse, the bodies in the alley.
Her instinct told her that something was unusual, that there was a shadow connecting everything, even though her professional mind couldn't find a direct logical correlation. It was just a vague suspicion, an intuition that unsettled her.
With her bowl of cereal finished, Jill put it in the sink. A desire to investigate, a need she felt deep within herself, overwhelmed her.
But she knew she couldn't do it. Her boss, that idiot Brian Irons, had suspended her over the mountain massacre, and now she was under constant surveillance, as if she were a criminal.
She looked out the window, down at the street, and saw a police car parked there, like a silent shadow, watching her.
With a sigh of resignation, she slumped down on the sofa. She picked up the remote and changed the channel, looking for a little distraction. Concern about the news consumed her, and the helplessness of not being able to do anything made her feel useless. Far from the action, far from her colleagues.
She missed Chris and Barry. She was alone, and she knew she was in Umbrella's crosshairs.
September 26. Raccoon City. John Wick's hotel room. 9:30 AM
The soft hum of the air conditioner was the first sound John Wick registered upon waking. He had slept. A deep, uninterrupted sleep, the first in days.
He felt his energy renewed, every muscle taut, ready for action. The fatigue that had consumed him the night before had vanished, replaced by steely concentration.
He rose from the bed, his body a perfectly tuned machine. He began his morning routine: stretching and strength exercises, fluid movements that seemed more like a dance than a workout.
As his muscles warmed up, his mind replayed the events of the night. The Umbrella pharmacy, the fire, the bodies. A clear warning.
He thought of Dr. William Birkin, of the school and the nursing home the employee had mentioned. Attacking those places would be an immense risk, not for Umbrella's security, but for the inevitable presence of innocents. Children. Elderly people. Precision would be key, a surgical strike to dismantle the operation without causing more unnecessary deaths.
As the hot water from the shower hit his skin, a name came back to his mind: Jill Valentine. The police. The one who had been involved in the Arklay Mountains affair. She had confronted Umbrella directly; she knew what they were doing.
She might have the missing piece to understand the big picture, a vision that he lacked. It would be much more efficient than going in blind, searching for clues in every corner.
He got out of the shower, dried himself off, and put on his most elegant suit, the immaculate black one that felt like a second skin. Every movement was deliberate, every adjustment a preparation for the impending confrontation.
He stowed his concealed weapons, his knives and his P30L with silencer, distributing them at strategic points under the fabric. He looked at himself in the mirror, Baba Yaga reflected in the darkness of his eyes.
As he left the room, the receptionist greeted him with his usual formality. John just nodded, his face expressionless. The street greeted him with the morning sun, a stark contrast to the darkness of his thoughts. He glanced at his wristwatch: 9:30 AM.
It was time. He headed in the direction of Jill's apartment, vaguely remembering the number given to him by the man he had interrogated, and then killed.
As John walked through the bustling streets of Raccoon City, the sound of cars, the chatter of people, and the echo of whispers about the news mingled in a whirlwind.
Did you hear about the warehouse? They say they found bodies... bitten!"
"Yeah, and the Umbrella pharmacy. They say it was a horrible fire. Poor people!"
"This is getting weird, isn't it? Too many things happening all of a sudden."
It was a busy morning. People were rushing to work, shops were opening their doors, and the aroma of coffee and freshly baked bread filled the air, trying to mask the underlying stench of the city. John moved through the crowd, an elegant shadow, invisible to the ordinary eye.
As he approached Jill's apartment building, his eyes locked onto the target. There it was. A police patrol car parked directly in front of the entrance. John frowned. Four police officers.
Two leaning against the car, their caps pushed back, and two others at the entrance to the building, their tired eyes scanning the surroundings.
John naturally changed course, heading to a small coffee shop across the street. He ordered a black coffee without sugar and leaned against the bar, pretending to read the newspaper, while his eyes, through the reflection in the glass, kept a close watch on the situation. He counted again: two in the car, two at the entrance. Four.
After a few minutes, he noticed a change. The two police officers who had been at the entrance to the building straightened up and walked toward the patrol car. The two who had been leaning against the car moved toward the entrance to the building, taking their place.
It was a routine changing of the guard, but it indicated constant surveillance. The two police officers who had been at the entrance headed straight for the café.
"Whew, finally a break," muttered one, a young man with a stubbly beard, as he approached the bar. "I don't know what got into Chief Irons to put us on Jill Valentine. What a waste of time!"
His partner, a burly man with a frown, nodded and took off his cap, running his hand through his hair. "You can say that again. Do they expect us to stay here all day with nothing to do? They should pay us more for this nonsense. And with everything that's going on in the city! Fires, bodies in warehouses... and here we are, watching over a former cop."
John, leaning on the bar, listened intently. Two fewer cops at the entrance. It was the perfect moment. His mind, a risk calculator, began to map out the two main options for entering the building.
The first was brute force: knock out or kill the two cops at the entrance. An option that his combat instinct offered him without hesitation. But they were in the middle of the sidewalk, with people passing by and the sun high in the sky.
There would be a scandal before he could even talk to Jill. It wasn't just reckless, it was stupid. It would attract the attention of the entire police department, and with Umbrella already on the prowl, it was an unnecessary risk.
The second option was subtlety. Entering as a visitor. Someone who was just passing through, visiting an acquaintance inside the building. A plan that better suited his modus operandi, that of a ghost.
He thought of names, looking for something common, something that wouldn't arouse suspicion. Olivia, Emma, Charlotte, Sophia. Generic names, easy to remember and sounding innocent. He would only give his first name, to avoid problems if he got a fictitious last name wrong.
With his decision made, John left his coffee almost untouched on the bar and straightened up. His movements were fluid, as if he had never been still. He walked toward the entrance of Jill's apartment building, his figure elegant and calm.
He approached the entrance with a steady, measured stride, the image of a respectable citizen. The two police officers, now at their post, looked at him with weary, almost bored indifference. John greeted them with a slight smile.
"Good morning, officers," John said, his voice calm and polite, without a hint of the tension he felt.
The burly policeman who was now guarding the entrance looked him up and down. "Good morning, sir. Who are you looking for in this building?"
"I'm here to visit a friend, Olivia," John replied, his voice as natural as if he had known her all his life. His gaze was direct, his eyes cold, but calm enough not to arouse suspicion.
The other officer, the young man with the beard, was already reaching for the intercom. "I'm going to confirm it. We can't let just anyone in."
"Oh, no, please don't bother," John interrupted with a smile. "That's exactly why it's a surprise. I don't want to ruin it. Just a moment with her."
The young policeman hesitated, his hand still on the intercom. John Wick, in his impeccable suit and with his air of normality, did not seem threatening. He looked like a businessman who wanted to visit a friend. After a brief exchange of glances between the two officers, the burly policeman nodded.
"All right, sir. You can come in," he said, with a tone of resignation. "But don't cause any trouble."
John nodded slightly. "Of course, officers. Have a good day."
He entered the building, the sound of the door closing behind him a silent click that marked a small victory. He climbed the stairs with a light step, his senses on high alert.
At the entrance, the two policemen watched him disappear up the stairs.
"Did you see that? 'Olivia'?" the young policeman chuckled. "I'd bet my last dollar that guy doesn't know any Olivia. He was probably sneaking in to see his girlfriend."
"Bah, leave it," replied the burly one, leaning back against the wall. "As long as he doesn't cause any trouble, it's none of our business. We've got enough on our hands with Miss Valentine locked up here."
Meanwhile, John climbed the flights of stairs, his eyes scanning each floor. He remembered the number the Umbrella agent had given him: 306. When he reached the third floor, he looked for the numbers on the doors. 301... 302... 303...
Just as he approached 306, his eyes stopped. At the end of the hallway, sitting on a folding chair next to the door, was another policeman. He was smoking a cigarette, the ash falling onto a newspaper spread out on his knees. And to top it off, his chair was right next to apartment 306.
John cursed under his breath. He couldn't use the "visiting Olivia" excuse again. It was too risky, and this cop seemed more alert than the ones at the entrance.
He quickly thought of a new strategy. His suit, while elegant, didn't exactly scream "journalist." But his presence, his air of seriousness, might be enough. A well-dressed, confident man could pass for many things.
He took a deep breath and approached the officer, his footsteps echoing softly in the hallway. The cop looked up from his newspaper, his tired gaze hardening when he saw John.
"You can't come any closer, sir. Restricted area," said the officer, his voice harsh, a cigarette hanging from his lips.
John stopped a few feet away. "Good morning, officer. I understand. I'm John, a reporter for the Raccoon City Times. I'm here to interview Miss Valentine for a story about recent events."
The policeman looked at him skeptically, his eyes narrowed. A puff of smoke escaped from his lips. "Journalist, huh? I don't recognize that. I'm going to confirm that with my boss." He began to raise his radio to his mouth.
John had anticipated this. He was tired of charades. With a quick, explosive movement, his fist slammed into the officer's chin.
The blow was sharp, brutal, sending the officer to the ground with a dazed groan. The cigarette flew from his lips, and the newspaper slid from his knees.
The cop, dizzy from the impact, tried to draw his gun. But John was faster. A precise kick struck the officer's hand, disarming him. The gun slid across the floor, out of reach. The cop, his eyes bloodshot, opened his mouth to scream.
Without hesitation, John lunged at him, one iron hand covering his mouth while the other tightened around his throat. The struggle was brief, silent, life leaving the officer's body until he fell unconscious, his breathing shallow and ragged.
John released the policeman, who slumped against the wall like a sack of potatoes.
The officer's gun lay on the floor beside him. He picked it up and tucked it discreetly under his jacket, next to his other weapons. There was no time to lose. He approached the door of apartment 306.
He knocked on the door with a steady, firm rhythm. Once. Twice. "Jill Valentine?" His voice was a low whisper, but the thick wood absorbed the sound. There was no answer. He knocked again, more impatiently. The situation was beginning to bother him.
September 26. Raccoon City. Jill's apartment. 10:15 AM
Jill was sitting on the sofa, the television tuned to a boring cooking show, trying to drown out the disturbing news.
Suddenly, she heard a knock at her door. Her first reaction was a pang of annoyance. It's probably that idiot cop, she thought. The officer in the hallway was always asking for something: coffee, a glass of water, or just looking for company to pass the time. She was getting tired of his interruptions.
She got up from the couch, intending to open the door and tell him to leave her alone, but before she could get close enough, a different voice came from the other side. A deep, unfamiliar voice.
"Jill Valentine?"
The sound made her freeze. It wasn't the cop's voice. The relaxation she had felt a second before vanished, replaced by a rush of cold adrenaline. Umbrella. The word echoed in her mind. They had sent someone. Someone to silence her.
Quickly, her combat instinct took over. There was no time to get dressed for battle. She was wearing short shorts and a blue shirt, her loungewear.
Her eyes fixed on her service pistol, which was on the coffee table. She grabbed it, slid it out with an expert movement, the familiar click of the magazine clicking into place.
The knocking continued, more insistent, more urgent. Jill moved nimbly, sliding behind the sofa, using it as cover. Her heart was pounding, but her mind was clear. She had to think. She had to escape. But how?
Author's note: I never expected to have so much support, I really appreciate it, I would love for you to leave reviews and continue donating power stones so that the fanfic reaches more people, and finally, thank you to Flin_Edits for being the biggest donor of power stones!