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Claire leaned into Noah's arms, her shoulders still trembling with the aftershocks of the truth Chris had left behind. After a long minute, she pulled back, her eyes red and raw. She looked at the dark, wet patch her tears had left on Noah's shirt and offered a small, weary apology.
"I'm sorry," she rasped. "I'm making a mess of you."
Noah shook his head, his hands reaching up to gently brush the stray hairs from her face. "Silly girl. The shirt doesn't matter. As long as you're still standing, that's all I care about." His voice was a low, steady hum that seemed to pull her back from the ledge.
Claire sniffled, forcing a ghost of a smile. She stepped away, her grip tightening on the Samurai Edge. She took a sharp breath, purging the grief from her lungs. "We should move. Chris went through hell to get this information. I won't let it end here."
Noah watched her with a quiet pride. He knew Claire wasn't just Chris Redfield's sister; she was a survivor in her own right. Together, they began a methodical sweep of the S.T.A.R.S. office, looking for anything that could give them an edge.
Claire moved to a heavy steel filing cabinet, pulling drawers one by one. She paused at a folder labeled t-virus, but her eyes drifted upward to a large, framed photograph on the wall.
It was the S.T.A.R.S. team in their prime. They were all there—confident, smiling, and dressed in the tactical blues of the R.P.D.'s elite. Chris stood front and center, looking invincible.
Noah walked over, his eyes scanning the faces he recognized from the histories of this world. There was Rebecca Chambers, the medic with the red cap, looking impossibly young. And Jill Valentine, the "Master of Unlocking," possessing a sharp, dangerous beauty that jumped off the film.
In Noah's mind, flashes of their documented exploits flickered by. Both were undeniably striking women. His lips curled into a faint, appreciative arc as he considered the sheer caliber of the team.
Then, he felt it.
A sudden, localized drop in temperature. A gaze so cold it felt like a needle pressing against his jugular.
Noah snapped his head around.
Claire was standing right behind him. Her brows were arched, her eyes narrowed into a terrifying, unblinking stare. It was the look of a woman who had just caught her boyfriend window-shopping in the middle of a war zone.
"What," she said, her voice dropping into an ominous, slow drawl, "are you looking at?"
Noah felt a bead of sweat roll down his temple. The adrenaline from the zombies was nothing compared to this. He'd forgotten the cardinal rule: never admire the "competition" in front of your very observant girlfriend.
"I... I was just analyzing the tactical composition of the squad," he stammered, his voice jumping an octave. "Studying their... gear. Very specialized."
Claire didn't blink. The silence stretched, becoming far more suffocating than the dead air in the hallways. Noah felt his face heating up, his brain scrambling for a graceful exit.
Beep. Clack-clack-clack.
The sound of a fax machine in the corner of the office was the most beautiful thing Noah had ever heard. It was an executive pardon from the governor.
Noah didn't wait. He spun on his heel and rushed to the machine, snatching the two pages as they slid into the tray.
"Claire! Look at this!" he yelled, perhaps a little too eagerly. "It's an FBI Internal Investigation Report. Sent directly to Chris."
The mention of her brother snapped Claire out of her scrutiny. She moved to his side, her anger replaced by a sharp, professional focus. Together, they read the report.
The tone was cold, federal, and utterly damning.
The first section addressed the G-Virus. The FBI claimed they had found no definitive evidence of its development, citing Umbrella's security as "impenetrable." Noah felt a chill; if the FBI couldn't find it, it meant the G-Virus was already deep in the dark.
The second section was the real bombshell.
"...Investigation into Raccoon City Police Chief Brian Irons has confirmed long-term bribery by Umbrella Corporation. Funds were used to facilitate the cover-up of illegal bio-weapon experiments..."
Claire let out a sharp, jagged breath. "That bastard," she hissed. "He sold the whole city for a paycheck."
It got worse. The report detailed Irons' history of assault during his university years—crimes that were buried by powerful donors and a complicit faculty. He was a predator who had been given a badge and a city to play with.
The report ended with a warning to Chris from a man named Jack Hamilton: Be cautious. Umbrella's reach is longer than you think.
"The rot goes all the way to the roots," Noah whispered. "It's not just the monsters. It's the people who invited them in."
As Claire processed the betrayal, Noah's eyes drifted to a heavy iron locker in the corner of the room. It looked out of place, reinforced and old-fashioned. He walked over and gave the handle a tug.
Creeeeeak.
The door swung open, revealing a heavy, metallic frame that made Noah's eyes widen.
"Claire! Check this out!"
Claire leaned over his shoulder, and her jaw dropped. "My God. A GM-79."
She reached in and pulled out the grenade launcher. It was a rugged, uncompromising piece of hardware, smelling of gun oil and cold steel. Beside it sat a row of 40mm grenades, their brass casings gleaming like jewels.
"Wow," Claire said, a genuine, dangerous light returning to her eyes. She slung the launcher over her shoulder and tucked the grenades into her belt. She patted her chest, looking up at Noah with a playful, confident tilt of her head. "Hmph. From now on, Doctor, your safety is officially in my hands."
Noah smiled, reaching out to gently ruffle her hair. "Whatever you say, Lady Knight."
He reached deeper into the cabinet, his fingers brushing something small and hard. He pulled it out: a heavy metal medallion shaped like an inverted triangle, featuring a unicorn with its head held high.
"First medallion," Noah said, handing it to her. "One down, two to go."
They did one last sweep of the office, ensuring no more secrets remained, and then stepped back out into the West Wing.
The corridor was a tomb. The only sound was the faint, rhythmic scratching of fingers against the boarded-up windows. Through the gaps in the wood, Noah could see the pale, reaching hands of the dead, clawing at the pine planks in a mindless attempt to reach the living.
They moved toward the stairs, heading back for the first floor. But as they neared the Operations Room, the air changed.
A thick, metallic scent of fresh blood hit them.
Ahead, a pool of red was spreading across the floor. It was too vibrant, too fresh. And then, Noah saw it: a single drop of blood falling from the ceiling, splashing into the puddle with a soft plip.
"Wait," Noah whispered, his hand going to Claire's shoulder.
They looked up, inch by agonizing inch.
Clinging to the ceiling was a nightmare flayed of its skin. It was a moist, dark red, its muscles and veins exposed like a biological diagram. It had no eyes, but from its toothless maw, a tongue longer than a man's arm—slimy, scythe-sharp, and twitching—slid out to taste the air.
Its claws were embedded in the plaster, and more blood dripped from its needle-sharp tips.
It was a Licker. And it was waiting for them to make a sound.
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