Kyle leaned back in his chair, the bluish glow of his monitor painting shadows across the cramped apartment. Empty ramen cups cluttered the desk, and a dusty game controller sat untouched to the side. He was twenty-two years old, yet he felt like he had lived far longer than that. His brown eyes, once bright, carried a dullness that spoke of loss and exhaustion.
On the screen, the Resident Evil 2 Remake trailer played.
The atmosphere was thick, foreboding. Leon S. Kennedy stepped into the R.P.D. station for the first time, his face lit with youthful determination. Claire rode her motorcycle into chaos, flames and zombies tearing apart the night. The sound effects—the guttural growls, the pounding footsteps—were enough to stir a forgotten excitement in Kyle's chest.
He smirked faintly. "Man… they actually remade it."
Resident Evil had been more than a game for him when he was younger. After his parents died in a car accident, the franchise became a place he could escape into. The fear of being chased down dark corridors, the adrenaline of surviving impossible odds—it gave him something to focus on besides grief. Games didn't pity him. Games didn't whisper condolences that meant nothing. They just demanded he keep moving.
But eventually, grief turned into anger, and anger into recklessness. At eighteen, he enlisted. If the world was cruel, then at least the military gave him purpose. Orders. Structure. Enemies that could bleed.
Only… that didn't last. A training accident, a severe injury, and the military cut him loose. "Medically discharged," the papers had said. To Kyle, it felt more like "discarded."
Now, years later, he was stuck in a small apartment with no mission, no orders, no real reason to get up in the morning. Until tonight.
The trailer ended, the screen fading to black. Kyle leaned back, letting out a breath.
If this came out when I was a kid, I would've gone nuts. Claire, Leon, Jill… damn. I wonder if I'd survive in their world. Probably not. But… at least I'd have something worth fighting for again.
Fatigue crept in. His eyelids drooped, head tilting against the chair. The faint hum of the computer lulled him as sleep overtook his weary body.
---
When he woke, the hum was gone.
Wind rustled through unseen trees, and the scent of pine filled his nose. The bed beneath him was stiff, wooden, not his mattress. His eyes shot open, scanning his surroundings. A cabin. Bare wooden walls. A desk in the corner. A faint draft slipped through gaps in the old window shutters.
Kyle pushed himself up fast. Every nerve in his body screamed danger. Years of drilled discipline surged back. He scanned corners, checked doors, listened for threats. The silence was unnerving—too clean, too alien.
And then he noticed the desk.
A survival knife rested on its surface. Above it, a faded map pinned to the wall. At the center of the map, circled in red ink: Raccoon City.
Kyle froze.
His hands trembled as he approached the window. He parted the blinds and looked outside.
The forest stretched endlessly, mist clinging to tall pines. The Arklay Mountains.
"No…" His chest tightened. He knew this place. He had seen it before, countless times in cutscenes and lore files. This was where it all started. The outbreak. The mansion. The beginning of the end.
A chime rang in his ears.
Blue text shimmered before his eyes, hovering in midair like a hologram.
> [System Online.]
Welcome, Player. Survival Protocol Initiated.
Mission: Survive the Outbreak.
Time until Raccoon City Incident: 30 Days.
Kyle staggered back. "What the…?"
The text followed him, floating at eye level. He blinked, and another window opened.
> [Stats Menu Unlocked]
Strength: 12
Agility: 11
Endurance: 13
Perception: 10
Intelligence: 9
Charisma: 8
[Skills]
Firearms Proficiency (Intermediate)
Close Quarters Combat (Basic)
Tactical Awareness (Basic)
[Shop Available]
A bitter laugh escaped him. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me. A system? This is some isekai crap."
But the numbers made sense. He wasn't a superhero. These were soldier's stats—above average, but far from superhuman. And the shop… his eyes narrowed as another window opened.
> [Shop]
9mm Handgun (100 Credits)
15 Rounds 9mm Ammo (20 Credits)
Combat Knife (50 Credits)
First Aid Spray (200 Credits)
Credits: 0
Kyle muttered a curse. Of course. Zero credits. He couldn't even buy a pea shooter.
He shut the menus with a thought, his heart pounding. "Alright… alright. Think. If this is real, then the outbreak hasn't started yet. I've got… thirty days."
The sound hit him then. A faint, guttural growl outside the cabin.
Kyle froze. Slowly, he crouched and moved to the window, keeping low. The forest was quiet, but something moved between the trees—a dark shape, low to the ground. The shape shifted, and moonlight revealed patches of hairless skin, torn flesh, and glowing, hungry eyes.
A Cerberus.
Kyle's throat went dry. Of course it had to be a damn zombie dog.
He crouched lower, forcing his breathing steady. His instincts screamed at him to fight, but his mind screamed louder. With no weapon, no ammo, he'd be ripped apart in seconds.
The Cerberus sniffed the air, growled, then padded back into the woods.
Kyle let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. His body shook, sweat dripping down his back.
Yeah. This is real.
He sat back against the wall, heart hammering. Images from the games flooded his mind—Jill, Chris, the mansion, the R.P.D. He knew what was coming. He knew how bad it was going to get.
But this time… he was here. And if he did nothing, everyone would die. Again.
He clenched his fists. "No. Not this time. I might not be able to save everyone… but I can save some."
The system chimed again.
> [Quest Received]
Main Quest: Survive the Raccoon City Incident.
Optional Quest: Join R.P.D. or S.T.A.R.S. before outbreak.
Reward: Access to exclusive Shop items.
Kyle chuckled, though it was shaky. "Figures. Of course you'd want me to cozy up with the main cast."
But deep down, he agreed. Getting close to Jill, Chris, or even Leon could give him a fighting chance. He couldn't do this alone, system or not.
He pushed himself up, gripping the survival knife from the desk. His reflection stared back at him in the blade—messy black hair, tired brown eyes, and a faint scar across his cheek from his army days. He looked nothing like a hero.
But maybe he didn't need to look like one. Maybe he just needed to survive.
Kyle walked to the map pinned on the wall, eyes fixed on the circled city. His lips pressed into a thin line.
"Thirty days…" he muttered. "Thirty days to prepare. Train. Stockpile. Get strong enough to fight."
He remembered the Cerberus's glowing eyes in the dark. He remembered Leon's determined face in the trailer. He remembered the feeling of loss that had followed him for years.
And for the first time in a long while, he felt something else.
Purpose.