September 24, 1998, 9:30 PM – Jill's Apartment
The apartment was an island of calm in an ocean of looming chaos. Eddie sat at the kitchen table, bathed in the cold glow of a laptop. Sketches of chemical formulas and molecular diagrams scrolled across the screen, a secret language only he could understand. He was laying the theoretical groundwork for the anti-virus, a counterweight to the beast he had injected into his veins. The components were still incomplete, fragments of a complex puzzle.
The scent of shampoo filled the air. Jill stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped in a bathrobe, drying her wet hair with a towel. She stopped behind him, peering at the screen with a curious look.
"Working late?"
"Just putting some ideas in order," he replied without looking away. "A future project." He shut the laptop with a sharp click and turned to her. "Speaking of projects. You know this city well, don't you? Its hidden corners."
Jill arched an eyebrow. "Depends on what you're looking for."
"I'm looking for a man. A ghost. His name is Greg Mueller. An ex-researcher for Umbrella. My sources say he's hiding somewhere on the university campus."
Jill's expression hardened, professional. "What business do you have with him?"
"He stole intellectual property when he left the company," Eddie lied, his tone flat and convincing. "Research data. I want it back. Discreetly."
"Umbrella hides a lot of filth," Jill muttered, more to herself than to him. She studied him, her face a mask of concentration. Then she nodded. "I'll help you. Give me a day."
"Thank you, Jill." His hand moved almost on its own, brushing her cheek. Her skin was soft, warm. An anchor.
A faint blush touched her face, but her eyes stayed locked on his. "Speaking of filth… What's happening in the Arklay Mountains. Is Umbrella involved?"
The question was a blade. Eddie felt a chill wash over him. "It's likely," he admitted carefully. "But I can't say more. I don't have proof." A half-truth. The worst kind of lie. "Jill," he continued, his voice sharpening, "don't investigate on your own. Don't talk to anyone about this. Do you understand? Umbrella isn't a company. It's a sovereign state with a private army. You'd just become a name on a missing persons report."
She stared at him, searching for a crack in his mask. She saw the gravity, the almost tangible concern. She knew he was right. She was powerless. But she also knew he wasn't. Slowly, she nodded. "Alright." A truce, not surrender.
---
September 26, 1998, 3:00 PM – Raccoon University Underground
Two days later, Eddie descended a rusted metal spiral staircase, following the precise directions from the file Jill had handed him. Twenty-second basement level. A floor absent from any official map. The air was cold, stale, thick with formaldehyde and something sweet, organic.
The laboratory was a hellhole. Outdated equipment buzzed under flickering neon lights. At the center of the room, a transparent containment tank filled with murky nutrient fluid gave off a faint greenish glow. Inside floated a pale figure, almost gray. Human. Or it had been once.
A middle-aged man in glasses and a stained lab coat hunched over the tank, muttering to himself.
"Doctor Mueller," Eddie said.
The man spun around, eyes wide behind thick lenses. His hand shot to a pistol on a cart, leveling it at Eddie with a paranoid tremor.
"Who are you?" he croaked.
"My name is Eddie." His smile was calm, almost amused. The pistol's barrel didn't disturb him. It was an annoyance, not a threat. "A distant relative of Uncle Marcus. You remember him, don't you, Greg?"
"Stop! You work for Umbrella?" Mueller barked, his voice high and hysterical.
"No. Just like you, I have a score to settle with them. I'm here to ask for your help."
Mueller hesitated, the pistol wavering. "You're related to Marcus?"
"I use Uncle Marcus's name to survive," Eddie said with a shrug. "Nothing more."
"Opportunistic bastard…" Mueller hissed, but lowered the weapon. "What do you want from me?"
"Information," Eddie answered, his tone turning glacial. "On the anti-virus."
"The anti-virus?" Mueller's expression grew stern. "What do you need it for? Have you been infected?"
"I need to experiment. Your anti-virus will help me. Don't worry, I'll pay. Tell me what you want."
A cold, greedy smile spread across Mueller's lips. "The anti-virus data is mine. If you want it, bring me a copy of the Nemesis project."
Eddie laughed, a short humorless sound. "Your price is too high, old man. Nemesis is a ghost. Even the military brass can't get their hands on it. Pick something else."
"That's your problem, not mine," Mueller snapped, stubborn. "If you want the anti-virus, bring me what I ask."
Eddie sighed, a sound of deep, theatrical disappointment. The smile vanished, replaced by cold determination. He stepped forward.
"Honestly," he said, his voice a low, threatening murmur, "I hoped it wouldn't come to this. But you made your choice."