Safe Room – Sublevel C
The door clanged shut behind them. For once, there was silence. No gunfire. No alarms. No monsters.
Just silence.
Jack's knees buckled, and he dropped heavily against the wall, Ada still in his arms. His breath came ragged, each inhale sharp enough to burn. He forced his legs to hold a little longer, but the strength just wasn't there anymore.
Finally, he lowered her carefully onto a bench bolted against the wall. His arms trembled as if he had just carried the whole damn war on his shoulders.
"...This has been the longest night," Jack muttered, his head thumping back against the cold wall. His M4 dangled loose on its sling, his knuckles pale from gripping it so hard.
Ada tilted her head, watching him with that unreadable half-smirk. Even with her dress torn and blood staining the bandages on her thigh, she still carried herself like she was in control of the room. Always.
"You really were going to carry me until you collapsed, weren't you?" she said softly, her voice almost amused.
Jack gave a hollow laugh; the sound cracked at the edges. "Wouldn't be the first dumb thing I've done tonight."
His eyes closed, just for a second, but the exhaustion pressed down hard. His chest rose and fell like bellows, sweat slicking his brow. The images wouldn't leave him—Chu, Klein, Walker, Okafor, Ramirez. Too many ghosts in too little time.
Ada leaned back against the bench, letting the silence settle, the hum of the vents filling the room. She studied him—the tension in his jaw, the way his hands still twitched like he couldn't let go of the fight.
"You're running on fumes, soldier boy," she murmured.
Jack opened one eye, forcing a weak grin. "Fumes are better than nothing."
Ada smirked faintly, though something softer flickered beneath it.
The silence was broken by the faint drip of blood pattering on steel.
Jack's eyes flicked down. Ada's bandage was soaked through, the crimson stain spreading fast across her thigh.
"Let me patch you up," he said, pushing off the wall. His hands went to his vest, pulling free the first-aid kit he'd hauled from one of the dead Umbrella guards near the armory. "Your blood's already seeped through."
Ada arched a brow, lips curving faintly. "Sharp eyes. Or maybe you're just looking for excuses to put your hands on me."
Jack shot her a look, half-exasperated, half-flustered, before kneeling beside her. "Not the time for jokes."
His hands worked quickly—alcohol wipe, new gauze, steady pressure—but his jaw stayed tight. He'd done this a hundred times before in training, patching up teammates during field drills. But with Ada, his hands lingered too long, his chest too tight.
Ada studied his face as he worked, her sharp eyes softer than usual. She caught it—the guilt in his expression, the way his jaw clenched whenever his fingers brushed blood.
"You've changed," she said quietly.
Jack's hands paused. "What?"
Her gaze lingered on him. "In that holding cell corridor. When you killed those guards. Your eyes… they weren't yours. Red. And the veins—like the monsters Umbrella makes."
Jack froze, breath caught in his throat. For a moment, he couldn't look at her, couldn't find words. Finally, he muttered, "...You saw that."
"I'd have to be blind not to." Ada leaned forward slightly, ignoring the sting in her leg.
"So… what are you, soldier boy? Still human? Or something else?"
His grip on the gauze tightened. He taped it down, hands rougher than he meant to.
"I don't know," Jack admitted, his voice raw. "I feel it in me—something Umbrella put there. Every time I use it, it feels like I lose another piece of myself. Like I'm just… one bad day away from turning into the same thing I'm fighting."
His reflection flashed in his mind—the predator's red eyes, the black veins crawling across his skin.
Ada's lips curved faintly, but her eyes never left his. "And yet… you saved me with it."
Jack looked up sharply, caught by her gaze. For the first time, there was no smirk, no mask of mystery on her face. Just the truth.
After changing Ada's bandaged wound, Jack leaned back against the wall again. His hands were sticky with her blood. The silence pressed heavily, broken only by the faint hum of the ventilation.
Ada shifted her leg, testing the bandage. "Not bad, soldier boy. You might make a decent field medic."
Jack didn't smile. His eyes stayed on the floor, shadowed. Something heavy in his chest begged to be spoken.
"I wasn't fast enough," he said finally, his voice low, rough.
Ada tilted her head. "What do you mean?"
His hand curled into a fist on his knee. "Okafor. Ramirez. They were my brothers. And I…" His throat caught, but he forced the words out. "...I put them down. Because by the time I got there, they weren't them anymore. All I could do was make sure the suffering ended."
The silence stretched, heavy, suffocating.
Jack's jaw tightened. "Every time… every damn time I show up after it's already too late. Too late to save them, too late to change anything. I keep telling myself I'll do better. But all I do is bury more ghosts."
He rubbed at his eyes with a blood-streaked hand, voice cracking. "Maybe that's all I'm good for. Showing up to clean up the mess."
Ada watched him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she leaned forward, her voice quieter than he'd ever heard it.
"You're wrong."
Jack blinked at her.
Ada's eyes softened, though her lips still curved faintly. "Maybe you couldn't save them. But you gave them mercy. You gave them something Umbrella never would. And me?" She touched her thigh, the fresh bandage he'd just tied. "You got here in time for me. You didn't fail me."
Her gaze locked onto his, steady and unwavering. "You're not too late, Jack. Not this time."
Jack swallowed hard, his chest tightening under her words.
He wanted to believe it, but the ghosts still clung to him. He leaned his head back against the wall, eyes closed, trying to steady the storm inside.
When he opened them again, Ada was watching him. Not with her usual mask, not with that sly smile she wore like armor. Her gaze was steady, unguarded.
"Jack," she said softly.
He blinked. "Yeah?"
Ada leaned in, close enough that he could feel her warmth despite the chill of the safe room. Her fingers brushed his jaw.
"You keep carrying everyone else's ghosts," she murmured, her lips just inches from his. "Let me make you forget the weight you're carrying."
Jack froze. His chest pounded. For a moment, words failed him. He wanted to push her away, tell her this was wrong, that she deserved better than someone half a step from becoming a monster. But when her eyes locked on his, everything else faded into the background.
"Ada…" he whispered, his voice raw.
She didn't give him a chance to finish.
Her lips brushed his, soft at first, then firmer—as if to silence the protests building in his chest. The kiss wasn't desperate, but grounding—steady, deliberate, like she was pulling him back from the edge of his own darkness.
Jack's hand, almost without thinking, circled around her waist, moving her closer. His touch was rough, calloused, but he held her as if she might vanish. For just a breath, the ghosts fell silent.
When she pulled back, her smirk returned—gentle this time, not mocking. "Don't get used to it, soldier boy. We're still in hell, remember?"
Jack let out a shaky laugh, his usual frown replaced with a slightly brighter smile, his forehead resting briefly against hers. "Trust me… I haven't forgotten."
Ada leaned back against the bench, adjusting her leg with a quiet wince, pistol still resting within reach. She tilted her head toward the steel door. "Then we should catch our breath while we can. The next fight's coming whether we're ready or not."
Jack nodded, his grip tightening briefly on the M4. But for once, he didn't feel like the weight he is carrying was heavy.