Midnight at Kansas State.
The Hale Library was a tomb of shadows, lit only by the occasional flickering desk lamp that cast weak, jaundiced halos over sprawling oak tables. The air tasted of dust and old parchment—a dry, suffocating scent that usually helped Noah focus. Tonight, it just felt heavy.
Noah rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling the grit behind his eyelids. He took a sip of lukewarm green tea. It was a small, bitter reminder of home, but even the familiar brew couldn't cut through the exhaustion of a medical major's schedule. He'd always hated coffee; the burnt, chemical aftertaste reminded him too much of the failed experiments in his father's clinic back in China.
It had been two months since he'd woken up in this life.
Behind the face of a handsome, quiet medical student lay a soul that didn't belong in the 1990s Midwest. He carried the weight of another life—a master of Traditional Chinese Medicine who knew the map of the human body better than the back of his own hand. His muscles still remembered the fluid, lethal strikes of Xingyi Quan, dormant instincts waiting for a reason to snap back into place.
Fate had decided to provide that reason on a Tuesday afternoon.
Claire Redfield had crashed into his life like a flare in a dark room. A mechanical engineering student with a ponytail the color of autumn leaves and a red leather jacket that defied the library's gloom. She'd grabbed his copy of Clinical Neuroanatomy by mistake, rushing off before he could say a word.
When he finally tracked her down to swap books, he found a tiny, defiant cloud doodled in the margin of page forty-two. It sat right next to his own meticulous marks—lightning bolts he'd drawn to indicate nerve pathways and strike points.
That doodle turned into a seat at his table. The seat turned into shared glances, then shared meals, and finally, a quiet, unspoken tether. Claire would wink at him over a pile of engine schematics, and Noah would offer a small, tired smile in return.
Then came the movies. In the flickering light of a local cinema, Claire had leaned in close, her breath warm against his ear.
"Just so you know," she'd whispered, her voice laced with a playful, sharp edge. "My brother Chris is S.T.A.R.S. He taught me everything—how to scrap, how to shoot, the works. So don't go getting any ideas about being a jerk."
Noah had just chuckled and passed her the popcorn, but the name Chris Redfield had sent a cold spike through his chest. He'd played it cool, masking the sudden gravity in his eyes with a shrug.
Their first kiss happened on a rainy Tuesday outside her dorm. The scent of ozone and wet asphalt hung thick in the air. She'd stood on her tiptoes, leaving a soft, damp impression on his cheek that made his head spin faster than any textbook ever could.
They were a couple. It was simple. It was good.
Until the phone call.
The shrill ring of his dormitory landline cut through the quiet afternoon like a gunshot.
"Hey, Noah!" Claire's voice was a burst of artificial sunshine, too fast and too bright. "Don't stress, okay? I'm headed to Raccoon City to track down Chris. He's gone radio silent and I'm not just sitting here waiting."
Noah gripped the receiver, his knuckles turning a ghostly white. "Claire, wait—"
"I'll bring you back some of that locally famous lemonade Chris keeps raving about! I heard it's killer. Love you, bye!"
The line went dead. The hollow hum of the dial tone felt like a death knell.
Raccoon City.
Two hours later, Noah was standing in his advisor's office. The elderly professor looked up, startled by the raw tension radiating off his most disciplined student.
"I need a leave of absence, Professor," Noah said. His voice was a low rasp.
The professor pushed his glasses up his nose. "Something wrong, Noah? You're weeks away from your finals."
Noah took a breath, grounding himself. "My girlfriend. She's headed into a bad situation in Raccoon City. I'm not letting her face it alone."
The professor's stern expression softened into a knowing, pitying smile. "Ah. To be young and reckless. Go on then. Your thesis is solid enough to survive a week's delay. Just... try to come back in one piece, son."
Noah didn't waste time with thanks. He had work to do.
He started at Kendo's Supply, or at least the local equivalent. The clerk, a man who looked like he'd been cured in tobacco smoke, didn't even look up from his magazine. He just tapped a grimy fingernail against Noah's student ID.
"Forget it, kid," the clerk spat, shifting a toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. "No green card, no handgun. State law."
"What about a shotgun? A hunting rifle?"
The man pointed to a faded, yellowed poster on the wall. "Ninety days residency, valid hunting permit, and an SSN. You got 'em?"
Noah didn't answer. He turned and walked out, the cold autumn wind hitting him like a physical blow. Legal channels were a dead end, and he didn't have the time or the contacts to find a black-market dealer who wouldn't just rob him blind.
He hopped into his beat-up Ford and tore toward the nearest big-box store.
He moved through the aisles with surgical precision. High-calorie protein bars. Energy gels. Vacuum-sealed biscuits. Gallons of water. He didn't look at prices; he just looked at shelf lives.
In the pharmacy section, he went deeper. Antibiotics, localized anesthetics, rolls of gauze, and hemostatic agents. He grabbed a professional-grade field surgical kit—scalpels, sutures, forceps. If things went the way his gut told him they would, he'd be doing more than just putting on Band-Aids.
As he reached the checkout, a flash of bright yellow caught his eye.
Cases of lemon soda. Claire's favorite.
He stared at the sugary, neon bottles for a long moment. It was dead weight. It was impractical. It was twenty-four bottles of sugar water that would take up space he didn't have.
He hauled the entire case into his cart.
It wasn't a drink; it was a promise. He'd find her, and he'd give her the damn soda.
He shoved the gear into his trunk, the old suspension groaning under the weight of the supplies. Noah climbed into the driver's seat and cranked the engine. It roared to life, a low, gutteral growl that mirrored the knot of ice in his stomach.
He didn't look back at the campus as he hit the highway. Ahead of him, the Midwest horizon was turning a bruised purple. Somewhere in that darkness sat Raccoon City—a town about to become an altar.
Noah shifted into gear and floored it.