Spencer's Manor
The cuffs dug into Jack's wrists with every step. Jill shoved him forward, her pistol pressed close enough to remind him she wasn't letting her guard down. She'd already stripped him of his weapons, including his combat knife.
The hallway opened into a wide chamber lined with polished suits of armor. Each knight stood rigid, spears leveled outward, their visors catching the shine of the overhead light.
Jill motioned with her weapon. "Move."
Jack stepped across the threshold. The door boomed shut behind them, iron bolts slamming into place. A grinding sound followed, low and mechanical, like gears long asleep waking up.
The armor shifted.
Statues that should have been immobile creaked on hidden tracks. Spears lowered inch by inch, their tips angling toward the center of the room.
Jack stopped cold, eyes narrowing. "That's new."
Jill was already moving to the walls, scanning for switches or triggers. The grinding deepened, the knights advancing slowly, deliberately, like executioners closing in.
Jack tugged at the cuffs, then glanced over his shoulder. "Name's Jack Hale, by the way. Figured you should at least know who you're planning to skewer."
Jill didn't look at him. Her voice was clipped. "You'll forgive me if introductions aren't my priority."
"Fair enough," Jack muttered, eyes darting to the advancing spears. "But if we make it out of this alive, you'll remember it."
The grinding echoed through the chamber as the armored knights creaked forward, their spears slowly converging on the center.
Jill scanned the walls, eyes sharp and calculating. "There's got to be a mechanism. This place is full of traps."
Jack winced as the steel bit into his wrists. "Yeah, and usually you disable traps before stepping into them."
"Quiet," she snapped, crouching near a cluster of tiles in the floor. "Pressure plates. They triggered the lock."
The spears angled lower, tips scraping against the floor. The circle tightened.
"Step on the wrong plate, and it accelerates," Jill said, studying the patterns.
Jack tugged at his cuffs, cursing. "Then figure out the right one."
"I'm working on it."
The spears jerked forward suddenly, faster now. Jack reacted without thinking. His body snapped into motion, Reflex Response kicking in—cuffs clanking as he shoved Jill aside just as a spear point carved through the space she'd been standing in.
Her head snapped toward him, eyes flashing.
"Don't thank me yet," Jack rasped, breathing hard. "Figure out your puzzle. I'll keep us alive long enough to solve it."
The grinding grew louder, the knights closing in, spears scraping sparks off the stone floor.
Jill darted from plate to plate, studying the alignment. "These three are the key. Step on them in sequence, and it should jam the mechanism."
"Problem is," Jack said grimly, "you don't have three bodies right now."
Jack glanced around, wrists still cuffed, and spotted a heavy statue toppled near the wall. Without asking permission, he bent down, muscles straining as he hauled it up against his chest.
"Hey—what the hell are you doing?" Jill snapped, eyes darting up.
Jack staggered under the weight, then smirked through gritted teeth. "Improvising."
He heaved the statue onto one of the pressure plates. The slab dropped with a heavy thunk—and the grinding gears stuttered.
Jill's eyes widened, just for a second, before she shook off the surprised look. She quickly stepped onto another plate, motioning for Jack. He slammed his boot onto the third.
The gears screeched, then locked. The nearest spear slowed, its tip freezing inches from Jill's shoulder.
Jill exhaled, then turned her head toward him, eyes narrowed. "You need to explain to me how you managed that—"
Before she could finish, the radio on her hip crackled. The same one she had taken from Jack. The signal was weak, distorted, like something was jamming it.
"…ck—J… Jack—can you… hear me?"
Both Jill's and Jack's heads snapped toward it. At the same time, both said, "Rebecca—"
Jill answered first, lifting the receiver. "This is Jill Valentine. Rebecca, is that you?"
Static surged, nearly drowning the voice. Then, faint but urgent: "...Oh my goodness… Jill, it's so good to hear you again… are you with Jack? I can't talk for long… but… trust him, please. Find me at the medical ward."
The line broke, swallowed by a hiss of interference.
Jill lowered the radio slowly, her eyes narrowing at him. For the first time since they'd met, her grip on her weapon eased—if only a fraction.
"How do you know Rebecca?" Jill asked, her tone edged with doubt now instead of ice.
Jack smirked faintly, tugging at his cuffs. "Look, lady, I told you before—I'm not your enemy. Rebecca and I go way back. Since middle school."
For the first time since they met, Jill didn't immediately snap back. Her expression was unreadable, eyes narrowing slightly as if weighing his words against Rebecca's plea. Her training screamed not to trust him, but Rebecca's voice echoed in her ears: Trust him.
With a sharp breath, Jill holstered her pistol and pulled out the cuff key. The steel clicked loose around his wrists. "If you try anything," she said coldly, "I'll end it right here."
Jack rubbed at his raw wrists, smirking faintly. "Guess that's progress."
"Don't push it." She reached into her pack, pulled out his combat knife, and held it out hilt-first. "This is all you get. Don't ask for more."
Jack slid it into its sheath at his belt. "Better than nothing, I guess."
For a moment, they stood in silence, the muffled groan of the mansion settling around them. Then Jill spoke, her voice level.
"Jill Valentine. S.T.A.R.S. Alpha Team — Rear Security."
Their eyes met, tension still hanging heavy—but something had shifted. Not trust. Not yet. But acknowledgment.
An unwanted alliance.
Dr. Isaacs's POV – Lower Observation Room
The observation deck was bathed in cold blue light, rows of monitors flickering with static-filled images of the mansion and its grounds.
Dr. Alexander Isaacs stood with his hands behind his back, posture straight, gaze fixed on the central feed. On-screen, the T-Aegis Tyrant stalked through the foggy treeline, its black-veined frame moving with deliberate, unnatural grace.
"Subject T-001A—field performance exceeds projected models," one technician reported, his voice hushed with awe. "Combat resilience… off the charts. S.T.A.R.S. Alpha Team sustained heavy losses in the first engagement."
Isaacs allowed himself a faint smile. Proof of concept. Superior design. Order refined from chaos.
But then the feed glitched. The Tyrant had stopped.
Its crimson eyes glowed in the dark, staring not at prey, not at the surviving S.T.A.R.S., but upward—straight into one of Umbrella's hidden surveillance cameras.
The technician froze. "Doctor… it's aware."
On another screen, the Tyrant began to move again—but not on its designated patrol route. It turned sharply, ignoring the herding protocols programmed into its neural mesh.
"Impossible," Isaacs murmured. "The control matrix is fail-safe."
Yet the Tyrant pressed deeper into the mansion's halls, movements precise but unscripted. It bypassed the safe zones, ignoring the algorithm that should have corralled the survivors toward the designated testing arenas.
"It's deviating," the technician whispered, panic edging into his tone. "Dr. Isaacs, the subject is making… its own decisions."
Isaacs adjusted his glasses, masking his irritation with cold detachment. "Run a full diagnostic. There's a flaw in the feedback loop."
Another feed crackled to life—T-Aegis stopping in a corridor lined with Umbrella cameras. Its head tilted upward again. The red eyes locked on the lens, unblinking.
The technician swallowed hard. "Doctor… I think it knows."
Isaacs's smile had vanished. He leaned closer to the glass, voice low, clinical.
"No. Not knows." His gaze sharpened, the faintest edge of unease flickering across his face. "Remembers."