A/N: Think you've got what it takes? 😏 Hit 50 power stones and I'll drop that bonus chapter. Come on, show me what you've got! 💥🔥
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Spencer's Mansion – Second Floor Hallway
Albert Wesker stood in the shadows, hands clasped loosely behind his back. The cracked window at his side gave him a clear view of the courtyard below.
Moonlight silvered the broken fountain and scattered stone. Jack Hale stood there, chest rising and falling like a furnace, blood streaked down his arms. Jill Valentine holstered her pistol with precise motions, her eyes still fixed on her partner.
Wesker watched in silence, his golden eyes hidden behind reflective lenses.
"Interesting," he murmured.
Jack moved with the raw, unpolished edge of a brawler — but his strikes had weight, his resilience obscene. Wesker had seen Tyrants fail after less punishment. Yet Hale endured, his body knitting itself back together faster each time he fell. Umbrella's little experiment was blossoming nicely.
And Jill… she was the opposite. Controlled. Measured. Adaptable. A soldier honed on the battlefield. But already Wesker could see the beginnings of reliance, the subtle shift in body language when she glanced at Hale.
He adjusted his gloves, turning from the window.
A low groan echoed behind him. Wesker's eyes flicked toward the adjoining chamber. Chris Redfield lay slumped in a chair, wrists bound, head lolling forward. Blood had dried in streaks across his temple, but his chest still rose and fell. Alive, though unconscious.
Wesker stepped closer, the corner of his mouth curving upward.
"Still breathing. Good. You'll be useful yet."
He regarded Chris for a moment longer before returning to the window. Below, Jack and Jill moved toward the far end of the courtyard, weapons drawn, unaware of the eyes above them.
"Run while you can," Wesker whispered, the faintest smirk on his lips. "Every step you take leads you deeper into my hand."
He turned and strode down the hall, boots silent against the dust-strewn floor. The Tyrant was still on the hunt, and the mansion had many more teeth to bare.
Spencer's Mansion – West Wing Portrait Gallery
Jack froze the moment they stepped inside. His hand tightened on his M9, every nerve screaming. The Viral Sense gnawed at him, crawling like claws against his skull.
But the gallery was empty.
Rows of portraits lined the walls, each framed in tarnished gold: an infant swaddled in blankets, a laughing boy clutching a toy, a solemn young man, a man in his prime, and an old man draped in finery. Flickering sconces burned beneath them, shadows twitching across the floor.
Jill swept the room with her pistol. "Clear."
Jack shook his head. "No. Something's here. I can feel it."
She didn't argue, but the look she gave him was skeptical. She crouched at the sconces, studying the inscription etched into the stone arch:
"From life to death, the path of all men."
Jill frowned, lips pressing thin. "Stages of life… infant, boy, young man, prime, old." Her fingers hovered over the first switch. "Progression. It should be youngest to oldest."
Jack arched a brow. "Should?"
She pressed the switch beneath the old man's portrait, testing her theory.
The sconces flared. A grinding roar shook the walls.
Panels slid open on either side of the gallery, and a stench of rot poured out. Shapes lurched through the gaps — arms gray and clawing, jaws snapping hungrily. A half-dozen zombies staggered into the light, groaning as they closed in.
"Shit!" Jill fired, dropping the first one with a clean headshot.
Jack's Viral Sense howled. "Told you something was here!"
He barreled forward, M9 cracking twice before he switched to brute force. His boot smashed into a zombie's chest, sending it sprawling. Another lunged from his left; he rammed his knife through its skull and ripped it free in a spray of gore. A third grabbed his arm, teeth snapping inches from his face. Jack snarled, twisted, and crushed its throat with a savage elbow strike.
"Fix it!" he barked over his shoulder. "Do it right this time!"
Jill cursed under her breath, sprinting back to the sconces. She slammed them in sequence, voice tight as she counted. "Infant… boy… young man… prime… old…"
Each switch clicked, the gears grinding louder. The portraits lit one by one, the mechanism humming in rhythm.
Jack drove the last zombie face-first into the wall, bone crunching under his boot. He spat blood and gore, chest heaving, as Jill pressed the final switch.
The portraits flared. Sparks spat from the old man's frame as a hidden jammer shorted out, the hum dying with a final crack. A compartment slid open beneath the portrait, revealing a pale stone mask. Its features were eerily human—eyes carved deep, nose sharp—yet where the mouth should have been was only smooth, unbroken stone.
Jill exhaled, relief washing through her. She stepped forward, brushing dust from the mask before sliding it into her pack.
She never saw the shadow above her.
Jack did. His Viral Sense screamed, gut-twistingcha.
"Jill!"
A Hunter dropped from the ceiling, claws raised. Jill froze, caught off guard.
Jack slammed into her, knocking her aside as the talons shredded the air where she'd stood. The beast landed in a crouch, hiss rattling its throat, reptilian eyes flashing red.
It lunged.
Jack's M9 barked twice, one round tearing a hole through its cheek. The Hunter roared and crashed into him, claws raking across his ribs. Pain flared hot, blood soaking his shirt, but Jack twisted with it, viral muscle surging. He hooked its leg, flipped the monster over his hip, and smashed it into the floor with a roar.
The Hunter writhed, hissing. Jill was already up. Her pistol snapped toward its skull. Bang-bang. Two precise rounds drilled through its eyes. The creature convulsed once, then went still.
Jack slumped back against the wall, one hand pressed to his side. His wounds itched as they began to knit, blood still streaking his skin.
Jill lowered her pistol, chest rising and falling. For a moment, she just stared at him — at the blood on his lips, at the way he'd shoved her aside without hesitation.
"You… you saved my ass," she muttered, almost disbelieving.
Jack smirked weakly. "What else is new?"
For the first time, there was no edge in her reply. Just quiet, genuine honesty: "Thanks."
She gave one last glance at the sparking remains of the jammer, now nothing more than a burned-out husk. The static in her radio had already softened, the interference fading.
The silence held for a moment, broken only by Jack's ragged breathing.
Then Jill's radio crackled. Static cleared, and a frantic voice burst through.
"Jack, Jill — I need your help. Can you hear me?"
Rebecca.
Both of them froze, alarm flashing in their eyes.