Chapter Text
The gym’s ambient light reflected off the steel weights and machines, casting sharp shadows that crisscrossed the concrete floor. At the center of the room, Chris lay flat on a bench, his focus so intense it practically buzzed in the air around him. A sleeveless shirt clung to his sweat-drenched chest and shoulders, each sharp breath escaping his lips like a dare hurled at his limits. His hands clamped down on the barbell, knuckles white, while muscular arms trembled under the strain. The bar was loaded to the max, a heavy challenge that matched his relentless drive. Plates rattled softly as he lowered the bar to his chest with controlled aggression, jaw clenched, before driving it upward in a motion balanced between power and recklessness.
Piers stood behind him, his stance tense as he hovered with his hands raised just below the barbell, ready to assist if necessary. His brow furrowed in concern as he watched Chris strain, the veins in his arms and neck bulging with effort. The aggression in Chris’s movements made the young soldier wince, his hands flinching even closer to the bar instinctively. After a moment of hesitation, he spoke, his voice breaking the rhythm of labored breaths and metallic clinks.
“Captain… is everything alright? At this pace, your heart’s gonna pop out of your chest.”
Chris didn’t respond right away, his focus locked onto the barbell as though it held the answer to a question he wasn’t ready to share. Piers half-expected no reply at all, but with a final, strained push, Redfield forced the barbell back into its rack with a sharp clang that echoed through the room. The weights settled, but Chris did not. He remained on the bench, his chest heaving as beads of sweat dripped onto the vinyl beneath him. His hands still gripped the bar, refusing to let go as though releasing it might undo his effort.
“I’m fine,” Chris muttered at last. Slowly, he peeled his fingers from the bar, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly.
Nivans frowned, his concern deepening. “Yeah... You’re pushing harder than usual—way harder. What’s going on?”
Chris let out a breath, long and measured, before grabbing a towel from nearby to wipe his face. “I’m fine,” he repeated, softer this time. “Just... thinking. Got a lot to handle before the transfer back to the States.”
“The transfer’s still months away. What kind of stuff needs this much effort now?” Piers pressed, his confusion plain as he studied his captain.
The older man paused mid-swipe, his expression momentarily unreadable. Finally, he muttered, “I still have to look for something. But it doesn’t concern you—or anyone from our team. Not yet.”
Piers tilted his head, his instincts picking up on the weight behind the words. “What do you mean? You’re going to act outside of assignment?” There was no accusation in his tone, but the pointed question hung in the air nonetheless.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to. Sir, if you’re planning to go off the grid, you know the BSAA won’t let that slide. Hell, I won’t let it slide—”
Chris’s head snapped up, his glare freezing Piers mid-sentence. For a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath. “Watch your tone, soldier,” he said, his voice sharp enough to cut through steel. His eyes bore into Piers with an intensity that made the younger man falter, realizing he might’ve stepped too far. “Just keep doing what we’ve been doing. Stay sharp. Even if I’m not around for a bit, I need to know you’ve got it handled.”
Nivans cleared his throat, still looking down. “But… we’re a team. You said so yourself, Captain. We don’t leave anyone behind, especially when it's about the good cause. I can help.”
Chris closed his eyes, his hand pressing against the back of his neck, trying to ease the tension coiled there. The irony of hearing his own words echoed back at him wasn’t lost. He’d meant them when he said them—every syllable. But now… He had reasons. He always had reasons. The relentless need to uncover the truth—whether the virus had truly stabilized, whether Rebecca’s grim assessment in the lab held weight—wasn’t something he could easily explain. Not yet. Maybe not ever. The enormity of it all churned inside him, turning his mind into a battlefield, a clash of loyalty, responsibility, and motives that refused to relent. For the past two days, every step he took around the base had felt heavier, haunted by a single, unshakable thought: What if it’s already too late to care?
“I know, Piers. I know,” he replied, sounding almost weary now. “I just… need time to sort things out. If I figure something out—or if I need help—you’ll be the first to know.”
Piers didn’t respond, and the silence that followed wasn’t comfortable. Chris started breaking down the barbell, but the soldier stepped in, grabbing the weights and returning them to the rack with a focus that bordered on impatience. Nivans clearly wasn’t done with the conversation, but he also wasn’t going to push it further. Redfield couldn’t entirely shake the feeling that he owed the kid more of an explanation. Trust wasn’t something he handed out easily anymore, but Piers had earned it. Months of missions and late nights on base had forged a bond he couldn’t ignore. He was solid in the field, dependable, and more than that—he really cared. That was surprisingly rare in their line of work.
Chris’s jaw clenched as an unwelcome memory surfaced, sharp and unrelenting. Wesker. The easy camaraderie they’d once shared in S.T.A.R.S., the trust that had felt so natural—until it wasn’t. The betrayal still cut deep, a scar that never truly healed. For a fleeting moment, Chris wondered if Piers saw him the way he once saw Wesker—as a mentor, a leader worth looking up to. The thought sent a pang of unease through him. He didn’t want Piers to ever feel the sting of betrayal, didn’t want to become the kind of man who could shatter someone’s trust. The sheer idea made him wince, and he cast his eyes downward, focusing on the floor as he steadied his breathing.
The silence stretched between them. Finally, Chris grabbed his water bottle and slung his towel over his shoulder. "I’ll see you tomorrow morning," he said, his tone making it clear the conversation was over. Without another glance, he left the gym, the weight of the encounter pressing down on him as much as the barbell had moments before.
In the showers, Chris stood under the steady stream of hot water, hoping it would wash away more than just the sweat from his workout. The heat eased the ache in his muscles, but it couldn’t reach the tension in his mind. He let the water cascade over his face, shutting his eyes as scenarios played out in his head—plans he couldn’t share, decisions he didn’t want to make.
When the water finally ran cold, Chris shut it off and stepped out, toweling himself dry with quick, almost impatient motions. He pulled on a fresh t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, rubbing a towel through his hair as he left the locker room and headed for his quarters. The hallways of the base were nearly empty at this hour, but the quiet was a relief, giving Chris a moment to breathe after the training. Back in his room, he shut the door behind him and let out a sigh, the familiar scent of clean sheets and faint gun oil offering a small comfort. He dropped onto the bed, sitting on the edge for a moment before leaning back with a low grunt. Shit, was he getting old already?
His gaze shifted to the desk across the room, zeroing in on the glowing numbers of the clock. Late, but not too late. Beside it, the small calendar pinned to the wall caught his eye, and the day’s square marked with a hastily scribbled note: “Claire!!”. He grimaced, running a hand through his still-damp hair when a flicker of guilt crept in—he’d nearly forgotten. She’d made a point of asking him to keep time free tonight, and now here he was, almost blowing it. Digging his phone out of his pocket, Chris unlocked it and scrolled to her contact. The screen lit up brighter than expected in the dim light, and he squinted against the glare before hitting the call button. The dialing tone hummed a few times before ending. Chris sighed, lowering the phone for a second before trying again.
Finally, the line connected, and Claire’s face appeared on the screen. She was mid-motion, excitedly adjusting her seat and propping the phone on what looked like a cluttered table.
“Chris!” she greeted, her smile radiant, her tone a blend of warmth and teasing. “You’re actually calling first? Who are you, and what have you done with my brother?”
Chris chuckled under his breath, shaking his head as he moved from his bed to his desk. He set the phone against a stack of books, leaning forward to get comfortable. “Ah, well... Don’t get used to it,” he said jokingly. “Figured I’d beat you to it this time. So, what’s going on?”
Claire shrugged, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Oh, not much. Things have slowed down a bit at TerraSave. Figured it’s a good time to stay with Sherry and…” She trailed off, her lips quirking into a knowing smile. “Well, Leon.”
She tilted the phone slightly, and the screen shifted to reveal Sherry Birkin seated beside her. The young woman was poking at a sushi roll with her chopsticks, her expression distracted, grumpy. She blinked up in surprise when she noticed the camera had shifted, her face briefly blank before recognition lit her features as she gave a small wave.
Chris crossed his arms over his chest, his expression warm as he nodded at her. “Hey, Sherry. You doing alright?”
Sherry nodded but didn’t say much, quickly averting her gaze back to the plate in front of her. Chris’s lips pressed into a thin line, a flicker of worry crossing his face. Damn poor girl. At least she Claire's with her, he thought. She wasn’t alone. Before he could say anything else, a new figure entered the frame. Leon Kennedy appeared beside the two women, casually placing a small dish of what looked like soy sauce onto the table. He leaned down with one arm on the edge, the faintest hint of mischief tugging at his smirk as his eyes met the camera.
“Well, well,” Leon said with mock drama. “Not the meeting I imagined with the great Chris Redfield, but hey, it’ll do.”
Chris couldn’t hold back the smile, but it flickered away almost as quickly as it came. His features shifted into a playful squint, and he straightened up, leaning toward the phone with an air of feigned suspicion.
“Kennedy…” he drawled, his tone teasing. “What’s this? Are you three living together now? Some kind of big happy family arrangement I didn’t get invited to?”
Leon chuckled, straightening up with an exaggerated shrug. “What can I say? We’ve got a good thing going here. Even made chore charts,” he quipped, shooting a quick wink at the camera.
Claire rolled her eyes, letting out a laugh as she playfully swatted Leon’s arm. “Don’t listen to him. He’s barely qualified to use a mop, let alone follow a chart.” She sighed and turned her attention back to Chris, her expression softening. “But thanks to him, she can at least leave that damn confinement she’s been in. I don’t know why they had to take such a ridiculous approach. It’s… frustrating.”
Leon mumbled something under his breath, clearly reluctant to criticize the government or his superiors outright but not entirely disagreeing. The tension in the conversation ebbed after that, shifting to lighter topics. They shared updates about life, personal anecdotes, and even a bit about Jill’s much-needed break in South America. Every time Valentine’s name came up, Chris shifted in his seat, a flicker of unease crossing his face. He hated the inability to contact her, even if he was certain she was safe. A letter would be enough, he thought, but that's when the conversation turned toward Christmas plans, and Claire let out a deep sigh, fidgeting with her fingers.
“I hope I don’t have to beg,” she said, her voice carrying some hope. “It wouldn’t be right if they didn’t let you come back to see your family, even for a few days.”
Chris scratched his jaw, his eyes automatically drifting toward the calendar. The days until Christmas were slipping away faster than he liked. “Well, a few days doesn’t seem like much—” His words cut off mid-sentence when a sudden buzzing noise interrupted him. He froze, his gaze snapping to the source of the sound.
Claire tilted her head, puzzled by his abrupt silence. Chris raised a finger, wordlessly signaling for her to hold on as he scanned the room. The sound grew louder, persistent, and then it clicked. His stomach churned with a cold weight of recognition. Slowly, almost mechanically, he opened the drawer of his desk. There it was. The phone Wesker had given him. It lay there, vibrating against the wood as if it had a life of its own. It was ringing. For the first time in over a month.
Chris’s pulse quickened. He stared at it, dread and resolve warring within him. “Claire, just… give me a minute, okay?”
“Chris, what—”
“A minute.” His tone brooked no argument. Fumbling with his own phone, he muted himself and turned off the camera.
Claire blinked, startled by the sudden shift in his demeanor, but she sighed in resignation and raised her hands in a gesture of surrender. She glanced nervously at Sherry, then returned her attention to her, resuming their conversation. Meanwhile, Chris’s fingers hovered over the cracked screen of the device. The weight of the moment pressed down on him. He’d expected to track Wesker down on his own; the idea of the man reaching out to him now was something he hadn’t considered. Taking a deep breath, Chris answered the call.
“It's you.”
There was a brief, almost suffocating silence, long enough for Chris to second-guess his decision to pick up, before he could hear a familiar hum on the other end.
“Didn't expect you to pick up right away,” Wesker's voice came through.
Chris’s grip tightened on the phone. “Didn’t expect you to call at all. Where are you?”
“A relatively… safe place,” Albert replied smoothly. “And you’re still in Pol—”
“How do I get there? How do I get to you?” Chris interrupted sharply. For a moment, the only response he got was a long, exasperated sigh from Wesker. Chris glanced downward, already picturing the expression on the other man’s face—irritated, disdainful. He could picture it vividly, too easily. Every micro-expression, every tilt of his head. Was it wrong that he always remembered so much about him? And that now it didn’t even feel tiring anymore? Chris cleared his throat silently, his voice quieter but firmer. “Fuck, why am I even trying to—… Wesker. I know. Your virus is not stable, is it?”
The pause that followed felt heavier, almost oppressive, as if Wesker was weighing his response—or perhaps, deciding whether Chris even deserved one. Redfield could feel the tension tightening in his chest, his free hand curling into a fist against his knee, his body rigid. His eyes flicked toward the still-muted video call. Claire’s laughter reached his ears, light and warm, as she chatted with Sherry. They were completely unaware of the storm building on the other end of the line, of the fragile thread Chris was trying to balance. The contrast was almost maddening.
Had his question been too direct? Maybe. But Chris didn’t have the luxury of subtlety, not now. Every second with Wesker felt painfully limited, deliberate, as though the man was playing chess with the very seconds they spoke. And Chris? He was tired of playing defense. What stung more, though, was the quiet realization that he was prioritizing this call over his sister. Claire, who had been his anchor through so much, was once again being put on hold for him. For Wesker. The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth, but he couldn’t stop himself. The need for answers was stronger. The stakes were too high to ignore.
Finally, Wesker spoke again, his voice measured but underscored with something Chris couldn’t quite place. Weariness? Frustration? “Perhaps. It just so happens you could be useful in that matter.”
Chris’s jaw clenched, his patience fraying. “What? Is that why you’re calling?”
“Of course not.” Wesker’s faint smirk was audible, but it felt brittle, like a shadow of the confidence he once exuded. “You’ve pieced together quite a bit, haven’t you? Let me guess. Someone helped.” He paused. “Who was it?”
Redfield hesitated, reluctant to even say his friend's name to the man on the other end. “Rebecca…” As Wesker let out an amused, knowing scoff, Chris pushed on quickly. “Doesn’t change anything. I know it’s only a matter of time before the Uroboros reactivates and kills you. And if someone else finds out, you’ll be an even easier, bigger target.”
“I’m aware,” Wesker said flatly.
“And if you die—”
“Chris. I know. I don’t need convincing.”
Chris licked his lips, his nerves getting the best of him for a brief moment as he closed his eyes. Wesker’s cryptic responses were no longer surprising, nor did they frustrate him the way they once had. Now, they were simply exhausting.
“I had the idea of calling you without needing to explain my situation,” Wesker continued, his voice smooth and calculated. “You need to come to me.”
“Go figure… But where? And how long are we talking here?”
“I’ll send you the details,” Wesker replied. There was a note of finality in his tone, one that ignited Chris’s frustration.
“No,” Chris snapped. “You’re going to tell me. Not send it in some damn message. I want to hear it. Right now.”
“Do you ever think, Chris, that walls might have ears?"
Chris almost laughed, irritation bristling under his skin. “You’re stalling, and you're shit at it.”
“I’m cautious,” Wesker corrected impatiently, though the faintest edge of hesitation crept into his tone. And then, almost reluctantly, he added, “It can't go wrong. I need to see you.”
Chris blinked, stunned into silence. It wasn’t the words themselves, but the way Wesker said them—softly, almost… imploring. There was no arrogance, no manipulation, just an unguarded truth that took the ever so stubborn BSAA captain aback. Chris’s breath caught in his throat, his heart stuttering in a way that surprised him. He didn’t want to acknowledge the warmth that flickered somewhere deep inside, didn’t want to admit that a part of him had waited for something like this—for Wesker to drop the façade, even for a moment.
“Shit… Alright,” Chris said, his voice quieter now, almost subdued. He nodded to himself, as if to steady his resolve. “Send it.”
The call ended abruptly, leaving Chris staring blankly at the wall, his thoughts spinning. Slowly, his gaze shifted to his phone, still running the video call. Claire had turned away from the camera, her animated gestures aimed at Leon, who had apparently joined the conversation in the background. The lively scene felt distant, a snapshot of warmth and normalcy he couldn’t bring himself to claim. He winced and looked away, his chest tightening with an unspoken ache. A sudden buzz against his palm redirected his attention. The promised message had arrived. With a resigned swipe, Chris opened it to reveal an address beneath the name of a town he didn’t recognize. Finland. He should’ve expected it, remembering Wesker’s earlier movements. He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. No point dwelling on it now. He needed to prepare.
Sliding his chair closer to the desk, Chris switched his mic and camera back on. He leaned slightly toward the screen, summoning a faint, strained smile. “Claire?” he called, his voice light despite the tension he couldn’t completely hide.
Claire turned back, her brows knitting together in mild concern. “Oh, you’re back. What’s up?”
Chris rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes darting briefly to the calendar behind him. “Listen... about Christmas.”
Claire’s eyes narrowed instantly. “Chris.”
He held up a hand, preempting her protest. “I’m just saying, showing up this year might be… a bit difficult.”
“What?” Her voice rose slightly, alarm clear in her tone. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not saying I won’t come.” Chris spoke quickly, his hands raised defensively. “I’m just saying I can’t promise anything. Things are... complicated right now.”
Claire’s shoulders sagged, frustration overtaking her features. “Chris, we’ve missed so many holidays already. It’s Christmas! You can’t let work ruin it again. And sure, I get emergencies, but this is different, isn’t it? It's like... You’re already planning to not be here.”
“I know.” His voice softened, guilt threading through his words. “I know how much it means. I’m not saying I won’t try. I will. But there’s something I have to handle first, and it’s… it’s not negotiable.”
Claire stared at him, her lips pressed into a tight line. “You’re not just handling work, are you?”
Chris swallowed hard, forcing himself to hold her gaze. “It’s something important. And it might take longer than I’d like. That’s all I can say.” He sighed, his tone taking on a pleading edge. “I’ll do everything I can to make it back in time, Claire. I swear. But if I can’t, just… just know I’m not bailing on you.”
Her expression softened slightly, though the hurt lingered in her eyes. “You better mean that, Chris.”
Chris nodded, wishing he could explain more, wishing he could somehow make her understand without words. But how could he, when he barely understood it all himself? He hated the distance growing between them. If only she knew how much he really meant it—how much of his life felt out of his control lately, no matter how hard he tried to deny it.
The process of securing a private scouting transport was routine—almost too easy. Chris kept it under the radar, bypassing the usual channels and sidestepping the need to explain himself to Piers, Rebecca, or anyone else. The secrecy gnawed at him, an itch he couldn’t quite scratch, but he shoved the unease down. Was he running away? The thought lingered, unwelcome and hard to dismiss, as he handed over his badge and documents at the small airfield. The guards scanned everything without much fanfare, waving him through while his gun was loaded into a secure compartment. The weapon wasn’t for any real confrontation; it was more a way to feel grounded—a small piece of normalcy in what was quickly becoming an unrecognizable situation. His grip tightened on his carry-on bag as he boarded the plane.
The journey from Poland to Finland was a solitary one. Above the dark winter clouds, the plane soared steadily, its engine a muted hum that only emphasized how alone Chris was. Outside, the horizon barely hinted at morning, the sun reluctant to rise in the far northern latitudes. He stared out the small window, his reflection faintly visible against the thick glass. The lines on his face seemed deeper in this light, the weight of his choices etched into every crease. No going back now.
It took him two days to reach the destination Wesker had set for him—two days since he’d severed himself from everything familiar. His phone had been off since departure, sitting heavy in his pocket like a constant reminder of what he’d left behind. Every step that carried him further from the base, from his duty and trusted people, added to the hollowness building inside. He told himself it was necessary—that he had to keep tabs on Wesker, had to ensure that if the man died, someone would be there to secure his body and the secrets it held. But even in the privacy of his own thoughts, the lie felt threadbare.
This wasn’t about duty for quite a while now.
The final leg of the journey was by train. The platform was cold and hushed, save for the occasional whistle of engines and the shuffle of boots on icy ground. Chris boarded quickly, claiming a window seat in the nearly empty car. The countryside unfolded like a somber painting, muted tones of white and gray stretching endlessly beneath the overcast sky. Birch trees lined the tracks, their skeletal branches stark against the featureless snow. Occasionally, the train passed isolated cottages, smoke curling lazily from chimneys—each a silent witness to the frozen stillness. Chris was so used to the city’s constant noise and endless motion that these quiet European towns, with their unhurried pace, left him feeling strangely out of place.
The train slowed as it approached his destination—a small coastal town nestled at the edge of the sea. Chris stepped onto the platform, the cold hitting him like a slap. He adjusted his coat, pulling it tighter as he scanned his surroundings. The station was nearly deserted, save for a handful of locals going about their business. At least they looked friendly, chatting and laughing softly among themselves. The town was quiet, its streets dusted with fresh snow that muffled the sound of his boots as he walked. In the distance, the sea stretched pale and icy, its surface broken only by the occasional dark shape of a fishing boat. Chris paused, his breath fogging in the air as he stared at the horizon.
Adjusting the grip on his bag, its weight pressing against his shoulder, he set off toward the shore. The narrow streets were lined with brightly painted houses that stood in sharp contrast to the endless white of the snow. As he neared the water, the scent of salt and brine grew stronger, carried on a wind that bit through his jacket and stung his cheeks. The waves lapped at the rocky shore with gentle, insistent rhythms, their surface rippling under the wind’s growing strength. Redfield scanned the docks as he approached, narrowing his eyes against the cold gusts. He’d been told something—or someone—would be waiting for him here. And there it was: a small fishing boat bobbed gently against the pier, weathered by years of use but sturdy. Standing on its deck was a man—older, bundled in a thick woolen coat and a hat pulled low over his ears. His face, lined and weathered, was calm, but his piercing gaze fixed directly on Chris, as though he’d been expecting him all along.
Chris stopped, his hand tightening slightly on the strap of his bag as he surveyed the scene. The docks were empty, silent but for the creak of the boat and the hiss of the wind. His instincts bristled, searching for any sign this might be a trap, but there was no one else. The man on the boat didn’t move or call out—just stood there, waiting.
With a resigned sigh, Chris steeled himself and made his way down the pier. His boots thudded against the wooden planks, the sound carrying through the stillness as he approached the waiting figure.
“I’m Chris Redfield,” he called out, trying to be polite. “I’m here to—”
“I know,” the man interrupted flatly. His voice was rough, carrying a cold tone that suggested he wasn’t interested in small talk. He gave a brief nod toward the boat, signaling for Chris to get on.
Chris raised his eyebrows, pausing for just a second at the man’s curt tone. So much for trying to be friendly. With no other option, he stepped onto the boat, his boots landing on the damp wooden deck. The old man said nothing more, turning his attention to the boat’s controls as Chris looked around.
The boat was cluttered with crates stacked haphazardly, each one labeled in faded black lettering. From what Chris could tell, the cargo consisted of basic supplies—canned food, bottles of water, sacks of grain. It looked like the sort of shipment meant for small, isolated settlements. Where to? God knows.
He moved carefully across the deck, scanning the area for any clues. Some battered books were tucked along the side of a crate, their covers soft and ruined from years of damp exposure. He picked one up briefly and flipped it open. The pages were barely legible, but the faint letters were unmistakably written in Cyrillic script. Russian, Chris noted, brow furrowing. That explained the man’s heavy accent, but it also raised a bigger question: Were they heading toward Russian territory?
Chris let the book drop back where he found it and straightened up, his stance widening instinctively to steady himself as the boat rumbled to life beneath him. The low hum of the turbine filled the air, followed by the subtle vibration of the deck as the engine pushed them forward. He glanced over his shoulder, watching the shore recede into the distance, and then turned his attention back to the older man at the helm. Still, no words. The man’s gaze remained locked on the horizon, his weathered hands steady on the controls.
An hour passed, the cold seeping into Chris’s bones, and the silence started to eat at him. He shifted uncomfortably in the cramped space, unable to escape the thick stacks of crates and boxes that filled every inch of the boat. There was no place to hide, no way to get comfortable. Every creak of the boat, every gust of wind seemed to inch his patience closer to breaking.
Eventually, a small island began to form on the horizon. Chris stood up, squinting against the wind as he watched it grow closer. He shook his head, irritation bubbling up. Enough was enough. The secrecy, the silence—it was all getting under his skin. His patience had worn thin. With a sigh, he pushed off from where he stood and moved toward the helm. His eyes were locked on the boatman’s hunched figure.
“Hey,” Chris called over the low drone of the engine. “Where exactly are we headed? What’s the name of the island?”
The boatman didn’t answer immediately. His hunched posture tightened, as though Chris’s words were physically weighing him down. Finally, after a long pause, the man turned just enough to glare over his shoulder, his face creased with irritation. The look he gave wasn’t just unfriendly—it was the kind of disdain that made Chris feel like he’d personally ruined the guy’s day.
Chris exhaled slowly, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Normally, he’d take the hint and leave the guy alone, but this wasn’t normal. Something wasn’t right. His gut was already telling him that. He lingered for a moment, scanning the boatman’s stiff posture, the tension in his grip on the wheel. That’s when he saw it—just a flicker of orange light on the man’s wrist. Chris stilled, narrowing his eyes. The man’s sleeve had ridden up slightly, revealing a dull, steel-looking bracelet. The light blinked rhythmically—on and off.
Chris frowned. “What’s that?”
The boatman’s reaction was immediate. He yanked his sleeve down over the bracelet, scowling deeper, as though Chris’s question had offended him. “None of your business.”
Chris tilted his head, a knot of suspicion tightening in his chest. That wasn’t just defensiveness—it was something else. He’d seen enough men try to hide something, and this felt like more than just a man trying to keep a secret. The way the boatman had snapped, the way he shielded the bracelet—it all set off alarms in Chris’s mind.
“Looks important,” Chris pressed, his voice flat and firm. “What is it? A tracker?”
The old man tensed. His shoulders stiffened, and for a moment, Chris thought the man might snap. "So annoying... Damn outsiders," the boatman muttered under his breath, barely audible over the hum of the engine. “Disgusting. You’re nothing like Wesker. Why should we bring you in... Shut up. That’s all you have to do. Shut up.”
The name hit Chris like a spark to a powder keg. His pulse jumped, his body instantly alert. Every nerve in his body flared with sudden, focused energy.
“What did you just say?” Chris snapped, closing the distance between them in a heartbeat. His hand gripped the edge of the helm as he leaned in. “Wesker... Is he waiting wherever we’re headed? Did you see—?”
The boatman’s face twisted in a scowl, his thick accent sharpening with his anger. “STAY. BACK.” The words were spat out like venom. “I knew it was a bad idea... You don’t belong here. Our Lady shouldn’t tolerate the likes of you..."
Chris’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Lady? Who the hell are you talking about? Is she—... What’s her connection to this place? To Wesker?”
“Her connection?” He gestured vaguely to the foggy horizon ahead, the island looming closer now. “She is this place. Alex Wesker rebuilt it. She saved us—gave us hope for the future when the world offered nothing but pain and death.”
Chris blinked, confusion tightening in his chest. “Alex?” he echoed, testing the name on his tongue. Not Albert—Alex. His mind was racing. What the hell?
The old man continued, his tone softening slightly, as though trying to explain a hard truth to someone too ignorant to understand. “You’re an outsider. You don’t see it yet—her brilliance. What she’s created here? It’s a sanctuary. A place where we can live in strength, where we don’t have to beg or bow for scraps.”
Chris’s frown deepened, skepticism cutting through the confusion. “Sanctuary?” he scoffed, his voice laced with disbelief. “Looks more like you’re living on a leash.” He nodded toward the flickering bracelet on the man’s wrist. “You don’t call that bowing to someone?”
The boatman’s face darkened, and the red light of the steel bracelet flashed angrily against his weathered skin. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!” he snapped. “This... this is a gift. A promise. She is the reason we’re alive. She built this place—our place. This is what she gave us!”
“Of course... Let me guess—for free?” Redfield scoffed, watching the man carefully.
The old man’s grip on the wheel tightened, his whole body straining. He was trembling, his face flushed with a deep shade of red, his breath coming in shallow, ragged bursts. The man’s body was shaking violently now, the skin on his arms bulging as though something beneath was pushing to get out. The veins under his skin were thick and pulsating, almost like his blood was boiling. His eyes widened in a mix of pain and rage.
“You don't understand... You just... If you’re a threat to this place, to her—I’ll kill you,” the boatman growled, his voice coming out strained, as if it was costing him to speak. “For Her, I’ll tear you apart!”
Chris’s hand darted inside his coat, fingers curling around the cold steel of his handgun, the cold steel of his handgun providing a sense of control in an increasingly unpredictable situation. He kept his eyes locked on the boatman, watching every shift in the man’s body, the tremors growing worse by the second. He couldn’t take his eyes off the furious man. His grip on the gun tightened, but he kept his distance for the moment, refusing to make any sudden moves. It wasn’t just anger. This was something else. Something... biological.
“Okay...” Chris started cautiously. “You... You need to calm down.” He took a measured breath, willing his own pulse to slow, though his heart pounded against his ribs. “What the hell is happening to you?”
The old man let out a strangled growl, his body tensing as if every muscle was on the verge of snapping. "It's your fault..." he hissed, eyes wild. "Shut up... you just had to shut up... I promised her I could do it..." His fists clenched tighter, and his skin took on a sickly hue.
Chris took another step back, his fingers tightening around the grip of his handgun. This wasn’t the first time he’d seen someone infected, but it was the first time he’d witnessed such a rapid transformation right in front of his eyes. The boat lurched beneath their feet, the wind and waves seeming to conspire against the growing chaos.
Then it happened—the boatman lost control. With a guttural roar that sounded more animal than human, he swung his arm wildly and sent one of the stacked crates flying through the air. The wooden box smashed into the railing, splintering into pieces. Chris instinctively ducked, adrenaline pumping through his veins as he finally got his gun out.
“Damn it...” he snarled, leveling his weapon and firing.
The shots hit their mark, the bullets tearing into the man’s chest and shoulder. But he didn’t go down. He staggered, snarling, his bloodshot eyes locking onto Chris with unrelenting fury. It was like the pain only made him angrier. He was still human, but barely. His strength was monstrous, and his erratic movements made him even more dangerous. With another enraged roar, the man grabbed a crate and hurled it like it weighed nothing, narrowly missing Chris and smashing into the helm. The boat swiveled hard, tilting at a precarious angle. Chris stumbled, gripping the edge of the deck to steady himself. He couldn’t afford to let this man sink the boat—not with them both on it.
“STOP!” he shouted. “YOU'LL SINK US BOTH!”
The man didn’t listen. His wild, animalistic fury only grew, his next swing colliding with the boat’s metal frame. The impact rang out like a gunshot, the steel crumpling beneath his fist. Crates tumbled into the water, each splash shifting the boat’s weight dangerously. The vessel tilted sharply, water sloshing over the edges as it groaned under the strain, teetering on the edge of capsizing.
Chris ducked another wild swing, the deck lurching beneath his boots. He spotted an opening and threw himself into a powerful shove, slamming into the man’s chest with all the strength he could muster. The boatman stumbled, arms pinwheeling as he fought to regain his balance on the slippery, unstable surface. Before the man could regain his balance, Chris drove a solid kick into his chest, his boot connecting with sickening force.
The boatman let out a guttural cry, his body tipping backward over the edge. He hit the water with a massive splash, the icy waves swallowing him whole. Chris staggered, gripping the railing as the boat rocked violently from the man’s fall. He had no time to recover. The helm was damaged, spinning out of control, and the dock loomed closer with each second.
“Shit...” he muttered, scrambling to the controls. His hands slipped on the wet wheel as he fought to steady the boat, but it was no use. The vessel slammed into the pier with a thunderous crash, the impact almost knocking him flat onto the deck.
Dazed, Redfield pulled himself upright just in time to leap onto the pier. He landed hard, the wooden boards creaking under his weight, but he rolled to his feet, catching his breath as he glanced back at the wrecked boat. He froze, seeing that it was far from over. Ripples spread across the water where the boatman had fallen. Then, impossibly, the man emerged. Dripping wet, his bloodshot eyes burned with the same unrelenting fury. He trudged forward through the shallows, his movements slow but implacable. The freezing water and his injuries seemed to mean nothing to him.
Chris raised his gun and his finger immediately hovered over the trigger. Was this thing even human anymore? He still looked it—mostly—but the sheer relentlessness, the primal hatred in his eyes, and his grotesque resilience told Chris otherwise.
“I’m ending this,” he muttered to himself, steadying his aim.
But before he could pull the trigger, the shots came.
Five of them, sharp and decisive, cracking through the air like thunderclaps. Each one struck with brutal precision, slamming into the boatman’s chest and head. The man’s body jerked violently, blood spraying in dark arcs before he crumpled backward into the icy water. A final splash echoed out as the body sank beneath the surface. He didn’t rise again.
Chris’s arm remained extended, his grip on the handgun rigid as his pulse hammered in his ears. Slowly, his gaze shifted away from the water, toward the shoreline. Standing there, framed by the gray mist and rocky terrain, was Wesker.
The blonde holstered his pistol with a smooth, practiced motion, his expression twisted in disdain. “Pathetic,” Wesker stated, his voice laced with contempt. “I knew he was worth nothing. Couldn’t even follow the simplest task without losing control.”
Chris let out half a sigh, half a cough. His adrenaline ebbed, replaced by exhaustion. He bent over, resting his hands on his knees to steady himself as the cold air burned in his lungs. When Wesker turned back to Chris, his expression shifted slightly. The irritation softened, replaced by something colder but not entirely unkind. A faint smile, almost imperceptible, tugged at his lips. It wasn’t a mocking smirk but something with an unsettling warmth—a cruel kind of affection.
“God fucking damn it,” Redfield muttered under his breath, the words more of an exhausted exhale than an actual statement. Then, when the other man got close enough, he straightened slowly. “I had it under control,”
Wesker tilted his head, studying him. “If you say so,” he replied with a quiet chuckle, though his tone made it clear he wasn’t entirely convinced. He held Chris’s gaze for a moment longer, his expression unreadable save for that lingering trace of amusement. After a moment, he gestured toward the land, its shadowy outline barely visible through the mist.
“Welcome to Sein Island.”