September 17th, 1998, 3:10 PM, The Restaurant
As the sound of Katherine's sobbing faded into the distance, the atmosphere at the table shifted instantly. The manufactured tension evaporated, replaced by a cold professionalism. Eddie gestured to Benjamin, who was still nursing his red cheek.
"Your performance was… adequate," Eddie said, sliding a check across the table.
Benjamin snatched it, his eyes greedily scanning the numbers. A flash of satisfaction crossed his face. Without a word, he pulled a small digital camera from his jacket pocket and placed it on the table. The exchange was complete. A soul sold for a few thousand dollars.
"I hope there are no surprises," Benjamin said, his voice now stripped of its earlier desperation.
"There won't be," Eddie replied. "Now get lost."
No one would ever know of their arrangement. Of the way Eddie had orchestrated every move, every word, every piece of fake evidence to shatter a naive girl's trust. He was a kind and honest man only when it suited him. And at that moment, convenience had the face of a brand-new helicopter.
September 17th, 1998, 4:00 PM, Raccoon City Bank
"What the hell is on that camera?" Benjamin asked as the bank teller counted out the crisp bills. The smell of fresh money was intoxicating. "A murder?"
"I don't know and I don't care," Eddie replied, leaning against the counter. "I'm just doing a job. Other people's filth isn't my problem." He turned to leave.
"Wait," Benjamin said. "Treat her well. Katherine. She's a good kid."
Eddie paused but didn't turn around. An icy smile touched his lips. "If you really cared about her, you wouldn't have taken my offer."
"Love doesn't pay the bills," Benjamin retorted with a shrug.
Eddie walked away without another word.
A short time later, he was back in the mayor's office. He handed the camera to Michael Warren. In return, he received a keychain and a title of ownership. A Bell 206, parked on the roof of an abandoned factory outside the city. It was a ticket out of the hell that was about to break loose. A ticket paid for with the corruption of a mayor and the broken heart of his daughter.
September 18th, 1998, 3:15 AM, The Underground Laboratory
The lab was cold and silent, lit only by the green glow of monitors. Eddie stared through the lens of an electron microscope, the smell of ozone and failure filling his nostrils.
"Test thirty-eight. Failure," he muttered, his voice a raw scratch in the silence. "Cellular symbiosis rejected. Subject is deceased."
He ran a hand over his face, exhausted. He'd been working for over ten hours. The outside world had ceased to exist. There was only him, his cells, and the virus that refused to obey.
Hiss.
The door to his private lab slid open. Annette Birkin entered, carrying a tray with a cup of coffee and a donut.
"You should rest," she said, her voice softer than usual. "Pushing yourself this hard is pointless. My husband is a madman when he works. Don't become like him."
"Health comes first," Eddie replied, taking the coffee. The hot, bitter liquid was a relief. "A sick researcher is of no use to anyone."
"I'm glad to hear you say that." Annette watched him, her blue eyes searching for something in his tired face. "What are you working on? A new B.O.W.?"
"No," he said, shaking his head. "I'm trying to perfect the serum. Make it stable. But it's a nightmare. Out of hundreds of thousands of subjects, only Sergei was fully compatible."
"You're right," she confirmed. "Even the Tyrant Project only had two stable successes. And even they… have issues."
"The upkeep," Eddie said, almost to himself. "The accelerated metabolism requires constant drug therapy to prevent cellular collapse. A cost not even Umbrella can sustain on a large scale."
Annette gave a faint smile. "You're well-informed. That's exactly right. Only Sergei is a self-sustaining system. A one-in-a-million genetic miracle."
"Or an abomination," Eddie murmured, staring into the dark liquid in his cup. And in that moment, he understood. He didn't need to fight the virus. He didn't need to force it. He needed to be like Sergei. He needed to find his own genetic miracle. Or create one himself.