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*****
"They wanted to let you wither, Sherry," William whispered, his eyes gleaming with obsessive love. "But I found the answer."
He looked at the monitors.
[SUBJECT: SHERRY BIRKIN]
[VIRAL STATUS: G-VIRUS (PERFECT STRAIN).]
[ ADAPTATION: 89%.]
[TISSUE REGENERATION: COMPLETE.]
He had found it in Lisa Trevor. The immortal test subject. She was the only organism to ever accept the NE-Alpha parasite and not die, bonding it with the Progenitor Virus to create something new. Something that didn't just mutate—it evolved.
On Friday—the same day the Hive went dark—William had made the desperate choice. He had injected Sherry with the first refined, "Perfect" strain of the G-Virus.
It wasn't a weapon to him. It was a miracle.
The monitors showed the results. The atrophy in her legs was gone. The muscle tissue had knit itself back together. The bones had strengthened. She wasn't just cured; she was enhanced.
"You're going to walk, sweetie," Birkin murmured, tears pricking his eyes. "You're going to run. You're the future."
But the future was in danger. Umbrella was coming. He knew how they operated. If they found out Sherry had successfully bonded with the G-Virus, they wouldn't see a cured child.
They would steal her away under cover of white coats and colder promises, peel back her skin like gift-wrapping, probe the miracle inside her veins, mine the miracle from her marrow, and forge her into another blade—the same merciless sacrament he once performed on another father's little girl.
Just as he had once taken another man's daughter and unmade her into steel.
"I won't let them take you," Birkin hissed. "I won't let them turn you into a rat."
He moved to the secure storage locker. He pulled out a small light, fully reinforced briefcase. He opened the cold storage unit. Inside were the master samples.
Four vials of the G-Virus (Purple).
Four vials of the G-Vaccine (Green).
He loaded them into the steel case. The virus was the power; the vaccine was the failsafe. He locked the case shut.
He walked over to a small pile of Sherry's belongings on the side table—her school uniform and her bright yellow backpack.
He shoved the heavy steel case into the main compartment of the school bag, burying it beneath text books and a stuffed bear.
He looked at the lock on the steel case. It was a biometric scanner paired with a physical key slot.
"Annette," Birkin called out.
His wife, Annette Birkin, looked up from her computer console where she was scrubbing through the facility's latest external logs. Her face was pale, drawn tight with the same fear that gripped him.
"Is it done?" Annette asked.
"The samples are secured," William said. He picked up a silver locket from the table—a birthday gift Annette had given Sherry last year.
He clicked the locket open. Inside was a picture of the three of them, happy, before the madness. He slotted the locket into the groove of the steel case.
CLICK.
[ LOCK ENGAGED.]
[UNLOCK REQUIREMENTS: SUBJECT FINGERPRINT + KEY ITEM (LOCKET).]
He pulled the locket out and put in the clothes of the girl. Only she could open the box. Only she carried the legacy.
"If they come for us," William said, closing the backpack and handing it to Annette, "Sherry takes this. It's her leverage. It's her life."
Annette took the bag, clutching it to her chest. "I won't let them near her, William. I'll burn this whole lab down first."
"Good," William said, his eyes turning wild again. He looked at the purple vial remaining on his desk—his personal insurance.
"Lock down the NEST, Annette," William commanded. "Seal the blast doors. Activate the U.B.C.S. defense protocols. If Umbrella tries to enter... if they try to take my work or our daughter..."
He gripped a scalpel on his desk so hard his knuckles turned white.
"We kill them all."
---
[POV: Jill Valentine]
[Location: Raccoon City Police Department (R.P.D.) Helipad]
The sun was fully up when the helicopter touched down on the concrete pad of the R.P.D.
Jill took a deep breath, clutching the packet of evidence Atlas had given her against her chest. It felt heavy—heavy with the souls of the people who had died.
"We made it," Rebecca whispered, looking pale and small next to the chopper.
"Let's get this to Irons," Chris said, helping Barry out. "Once he sees this, Umbrella is finished."
They walked toward the roof access door.
Before they could reach it, the door burst open.
A swarm of SWAT officers poured out, weapons raised. Behind them came a team of medics in hazmat suits.
"Freeze! Drop your weapons!" a sergeant shouted.
"We're S.T.A.R.S.!" Chris yelled, raising his hands. "We have wounded!"
"Drop the weapons! Now!"
"Do it, Chris," Barry said, lowering his Magnum.
They were surrounded. The medics rushed forward, but they weren't treating them. They were grabbing them.
"Subject contaminated," one medic said, grabbing Enrico. "Isolate immediately."
"Hey! Watch his arm!" Rebecca shouted, trying to intervene.
Two officers grabbed Jill.
"Ma'am, you need to come with us. Decontamination protocol."
"I have evidence!" Jill shouted, holding up the packet. "I need to see Chief Irons! Umbrella is responsible for the murders!"
A large hand snatched the packet from her grip.
It was Chief Brian Irons. He stood there, uniform impeccable, a look of faux concern on his face.
"I'll take that, Valentine," Irons said. "Evidence needs to be processed through proper channels."
"Chief, look at it!" Jill pleaded as she was dragged back. "It proves everything! Wesker was a mole! Birkin is involved!"
"Wesker is a hero who died in the line of duty," Irons said loudly, addressing the officers.
"These people are suffering from trauma and chemical exposure. They are delusional. Take them to the isolation ward. No press. No phone calls."
Jill watched in horror as Irons tucked the packet—Atlas's gift, the smoking gun—under his arm. He wasn't going to file it. He was going to burn it.
"No!" Jill screamed. "You can't do this!"
"Get them out of here," Irons ordered, turning his back.
As Jill was dragged away, she looked back at the sky. She thought of Atlas. He must have known of this. He had known the rot went all the way to the top. That was why he jumped.
'You were right,' Jill thought, despair washing over her. 'We walked right into the trap.'
"Where is the other one?" Irons asked the SWAT sergeant quietly. "The big guy. The report mentioned a civilian."
"No civilian, sir," the sergeant replied. "Just the S.T.A.R.S. team."
Irons frowned. "Find him. Check the flight path. If he jumped... find the body."
---
Location: Apple Inn, Room 302 – Raccoon City.
Time: 11:10 AM (Tuesday, June 11, 2002).
The water was scalding hot, but Atlas couldn't feel the burn.
He stood under the spray of the shower, his head bowed, watching the water swirl pink with dried blood and black with necrotic sludge as it spiraled down the drain. It was a mesmerizing vortex of filth, carrying away the physical remnants of the Arklay Mountains.
He scrubbed his skin raw. He used a rough sponge, dragging it over his chest, his arms, his hands. He was trying to wash away more than just dirt. He was washing away the sewer smell of the tunnels, the sterile chemical stench of the laboratory, and the metallic, copper tang of the death that clung to him like a second skin.
It had been more than an hour since he stepped into the shower. The bathroom was thick with steam, turning the mirror into a fogged-up slate, but Atlas didn't move. He needed this. He needed to feel clean before he tore himself apart again.
Finally, the water ran clear.
He turned off the tap. The sudden silence in the small bathroom was deafening.
Atlas stepped out, water dripping from his muscular frame onto the tile. He dried off vigorously with a rough white towel, the friction grounding him. He wrapped a thick bathrobe around himself—a luxury he hadn't afforded himself in days—and walked into the main room of the suite.
Room 302 had transformed. It was no longer a hotel room; it was a forward operating base.
The surfaces were cluttered with the tools of his trade. Notes on Umbrella's hierarchy were pinned to the corkboard. Detailed maps of the city's sewer systems and subway lines covered the desk. Weapons were disassembled and cleaned on the coffee table—his Glock, the shotgun, the combat knife. Next to them were rows of herbs (Green, Red, Blue) and vials of chemical fluids he was experimenting with. And bullets. Boxes and boxes of ammunition, stacked like gold bars.
He picked up his burner phone from the nightstand. The screen was black. No signal—he had removed the SIM card hours ago and crushed it. He was a ghost now.
He walked to the window and pulled back the heavy blackout curtain just an inch.
*****
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