"The Apple Inn," Atlas muttered, hailing a cab. "Let's see if their room service can handle an Apex."
---
Location: Raccoon City – Downtown District.
Time: 07:30 AM.
The morning sun was climbing higher, burning off the mist that clung to the streets of Raccoon City. The city was fully awake now, the hum of traffic and the distant wail of sirens creating a symphony of urban life.
Atlas walked down the sidewalk, a solitary figure moving against the flow of the morning commute.
He was whistling.
"Oh, the misery... Everybody wants to be my enemy..."
The tune was haunting, melodic, and impossible. It was the melody of Enemy by Imagine Dragons—a song that wouldn't be written for another twenty years if ever here. To the pedestrians walking by, it was just a catchy, unfamiliar tune. To Atlas, it was a way to enjoy life.
He felt good. He felt heavy with cash and light with power.
He stopped at a high-end menswear boutique called "The Executive." The mannequin in the window wore a stiff, restrictive suit. Atlas shook his head.
'I need something good,' he thought. 'But I need to be able to roundhouse kick a zombie's head off without splitting my inseam.'
He entered the store. Thirty minutes later, he emerged, $1700 lighter but looking like a different man.
He had ditched the blood-crusted U.B.C.S. under-layers. Now, he wore a pair of dark charcoal tactical chinos—stretchy, durable, but cut like dress pants. On top, a fitted black Henley that accentuated the unnatural width of his shoulders and the definition of his chest, layered under a high-quality, lightweight leather bomber jacket.
He looked like a specialized contractor. Expensive. Dangerous. He also brought three more sets of different clothing.
He continued his walk, the black tactical backpack slung over one shoulder, left hand full of bags with clothes and laptop until he reached his destination.
[The Apple Inn.]
It wasn't a five-star hotel, it wasn't the best Raccoon City had to offer for those who wanted discretion. It was a mid-century building with a polished brass entrance and a reputation for catering to Higher executives who needed to conduct... private business.
Atlas pushed through the revolving doors.
The lobby was cool, smelling of lemon polish and stale cigarette smoke masked by potpourri.
The carpet was a deep burgundy, plush enough to silence his heavy boots.
He approached the reception desk.
The receptionist was a young woman, perhaps mid-twenties, with voluminous blonde hair teased in the style of the late 90s and bright red lipstick. Her nametag read "Veronica." She was filing her nails, looking bored out of her mind.
She looked up as Atlas approached. Her boredom vanished instantly.
Her eyes swept over him—the expensive leather jacket, the gray-silver hair, the striking grey eyes, and the multiple bags of new clothing in his hand. Her gaze lingered on his face, then drifted to the heavy backpack that seemed to clink with the promise of weight.
She straightened up, flashing a practiced, dazzling smile.
"Good morning, sir," Veronica purred, her voice dropping an octave. "Checking in?"
"I am," Atlas said, leaning his elbows on the tall counter. He flashed a charming, easy smile. "I'm new in town. Looking for a sanctuary."
"You came to the right place," she said, typing on her keyboard but keeping eye contact. "We offer the best privacy in the city. How long will you be staying with us?"
"Ten days," Atlas replied.
He knew he wouldn't be there that long—the missile was coming in less than a week—but booking a long stay signaled stability. It signaled money.
"And I have requirements," Atlas continued. "I need your best suite. Full service. 24-hour kitchen access—breakfast, lunch, dinner, delivered to the door. And I need a dedicated Ethernet line. I have work to do."
Veronica typed furiously. "We have the Executive King Suite on the third floor. It has a T1 connection, a jacuzzi tub, and a view of the skyline. The rate is $170 a night."
She looked up, gauging his reaction to the price. In 2002, $170 a night was steep.
Atlas didn't blink. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a thick stack of bills.
"Ten days. Full service. Let's round it up."
He counted out the cash. Fifty-dollar bills slapped onto the marble counter.
"Here is $850 up front for the first half. I'll settle the rest and the room service tab upon checkout."
Veronica's eyes widened slightly at the cash. She quickly swept it up, verifying the bills with a practiced touch.
"Perfect," she beamed. She grabbed a heavy brass key with a '303' tag. "Room 303. Third floor, end of the hall. It's our quietest room."
Atlas took the key. "Thank you, Veronica."
He turned to leave, grabbing his bags.
"Oh, sir?" Veronica called out, her voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper.
Atlas paused and turned back. "Yes?"
Veronica leaned over the counter, giving him a generous view of her cleavage. She bit her lip, her eyes sparkling with greed and a hint of genuine attraction.
"You seem like a man who appreciates... quality," she murmured. "Since you're new in town, I thought I should mention our 'Special Services'."
Atlas tilted his head, intrigued. "Go on."
"We have a partnership with an exclusive agency," she explained, tracing the rim of the counter with a manicured fingernail. "Very discreet. Very talented company. It costs a bit extra—between $700 and $1000 a night—but they offer the kind of stress relief a man of your stature might need."
She winked. "The 'Girlfriend Experience'. The 'Nurse'. The 'Secretary'. Whatever flavor you prefer."
Atlas stared at her.
In his old life, he would have handled this with cold indifference. As a soldier, he was accustomed to the darker side of human nature; he wasn't the type to stutter or look away. What surprised him was simply the brazen lack of discretion—The only thing that gave him pause was the sheer audacity of the establishment; offering such services so openly, with zero fear of the police or the law, spoke volumes about how far society had already fallen.
The Evolution hadn't just hardened his skin; it had supercharged his primal drives. His libido was no longer just a human desire—it was a predatory imperative, amplified by a biology that no longer understood the concept of 'enough.'
He was now a creature of absolute, ravenous appetite. And with the terrifying gift of Infinite Stamina coursing through his undead veins, the physical limitations of a mortal man were gone. Fatigue was a memory. He wasn't just capable of performing; he was an engine of perpetual motion, unsure if his dick was even capable of powering down.
He was an Undead entity with a body that didn't know the meaning of exhaustion. There was no 'cooldown,' no fatigue, and no limit. He was, for all intents and purposes, unstoppable.
Now, however, indifference was impossible.
He smirked.
"Is that so?" Atlas mused. "Well, it has been a very long night."
He nodded slowly.
"Send the list to my room. I'll review the... menu... and let you know."
Veronica's smile widened into a grin. She knew she'd be getting a hefty cut of that fee.
"I'll have it sent up right away, sir. Enjoy your stay."
---
[Room 303]
Atlas unlocked the door and stepped inside.
The suite was impressive. Heavy velvet drapes blocked out the city light. A massive king-sized bed dominated the room, covered in a gold duvet. There was a mahogany desk for his new laptop, a minibar, and a large television.
It smelled clean. It smelled safe.
Atlas dropped the bags of clothes on the armchair. He set the backpack containing the T-Virus Anti-virus, grenades the gun, megs and the $18,000 carefully on the desk.
He stood in the center of the room and exhaled.
For the first time since waking up in the Hive, since the lasers, the zombies, and the killing, he was truly alone.
"Home sweet fortress," he whispered.
He stripped off the leather jacket. Then the Henley. Then the pants.
He stood naked in the dim room, looking at himself in the full-length mirror.
His body was a masterpiece of biological engineering. Pale, marble skin stretched over muscles that looked carved from stone. Faint, dark-crimson-silver veins traced patterns under his skin like a living circuit board. He didn't look human anymore—he looked like a statue brought to life by dark magic.
He walked into the bathroom.
It was tiled in black marble with gold fixtures. A massive soaking tub sat in the corner, and a glass-enclosed shower stood opposite.
Atlas turned on the shower. He cranked the heat up to the maximum.
He stepped in.
The scalding water hit his skin, but he didn't flinch. His body registered the heat, but there was no pain, only a dull, pleasant roar.
He grabbed a bar of expensive, scented soap and began to scrub.
He felt like bathing physically. His biology was efficient; he didn't sweat like a human, and most of the dirt seemed to slide off his evolved skin. He didn't feel like using the toilet..
But psychologically? He felt filthy.
He scrubbed his hands, watching the water swirl down the drain. It turned pink, then dark grey.
It was the blood. Not just the U.B.C.S. soldiers, but the zombie gore, the Licker's fluids, the grime of the sewers. It was the physical residue of the violence he had committed.
SNKIT!
"Out, damned spot," he muttered, scrubbing his knuckles where the claws extended.
He stood under the spray for twenty minutes, letting the heat soak into his bones. He closed his eyes, listening to the water hammer against the tile. For a moment, he wasn't the Apex. He wasn't the monster. He was just a man who was enjoying the hot bath.
It was more of a psychological nature than a physical one.
He turned off the water.
He stepped out, steam billowing around him like a fog. He grabbed a thick, white terrycloth robe from the rack and wrapped it around himself. It was soft. Luxurious.
He walked out into the main room.
He approached the bed. It looked like a cloud.
Atlas let himself fall forward.
Whump.
He landed face-down on the duvet, bouncing slightly. He groaned—a sound of pure, unadulterated comfort.
He rolled over onto his back, spreading his arms and legs wide in a starfish position. He stared up at the ceiling fan spinning lazily above him.
"Air conditioning," Atlas said, addressing the ceiling. "Soft sheets. No zombies trying to eat my face."
He laughed softly.
"This is the life."
He took a deep breath of the conditioned air. He didn't need oxygen, but the sensation of filling his lungs was grounding. It reminded him that despite the claws and the virus, he was still him. He still enjoyed a soft bed. He still liked looking at beautiful women. He still wanted to enjoy life.
He was a monster with the soul of a man.
He reached over to the nightstand, grabbing the room service menu and dialing the number.
He skipped the pleasantries. He skimmed the menu once, then spoke without hesitation.
"Steak," he said at last. "Rare. Five eggs—scrambled. A fresh garden salad. Chicken wings, grilled fish, and a bowl of soup."
He paused briefly before adding, "Seasonal fruit as well—apples, bananas, citrus. And coffee."
Another pause.
"Lots of coffee. In room number 303."
After ordering he put down the phone.
He relaxed, closing his eyes for a moment of peace.
In two to three days, this hotel would likely be burning. In five days, it would be vaporized by a missile.
"But for now," Atlas whispered, a smirk touching his lips as he thought about the 'Special Service' list coming up. "I'm going to do some experiments and research."
While lying down he asked.
"Hey Pleione, let's see what body parts I can upgrade today! "