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The walk down to the holding cells felt endless.
Leon's boots created a steady, lonely rhythm on the concrete. His mind was a chaotic loop of the night's highlights: the crushing impact of the van, the roar of the fire, and the silent, lethal grace of Ada Wong.
Knowing Sherry was safe with Noah and Claire was a weight off his shoulders. Noah was a rock, and Claire... well, Claire was a Redfield. They could handle themselves. He let a small, private smile touch his lips in the dark—a mix of relief and a strange, new flutter he wasn't ready to name.
He reached the Breakroom just before the cell blocks. It was a disaster area of overturned cabinets and stale coffee. He scavenged through a row of lockers, his eyes lighting up when he found two boxes of 9mm rounds and a small pouch of shotgun shells.
"God bless the R.P.D. supply chain," he muttered, thumbing the shells into his tactical vest.
Past the breakroom, the air changed. It grew heavy with the smell of rust, damp stone, and the unmistakable stagnant scent of a jail. Leon moved quietly, his shotgun at the low-ready, until he reached the very last cell.
A man was sprawled on a narrow cot, snoring as if the world weren't ending outside.
Leon rattled the bars with a sharp clang. "Wake up! You Ben Bertolucci?"
The man bolted upright, his eyes wild. He looked to be in his thirties, with a mess of black hair and a week's worth of stubble. His white shirt was a map of wrinkles, and his red tie was pulled loose. He rolled off the cot with a surprising, nervous energy.
"Who's asking?" he rasped, his voice thick with sleep. "You the contact? Finally."
"I'm a cop," Leon said, but Ben cut him off with a harsh, jagged laugh.
"I don't know anything," Ben snapped, crossing his arms and leaning against the back wall. "And even if I did, I wouldn't tell a suit. Or a badge. Or whatever Umbrella sent to quiet me down. You here to finish the job?"
Leon sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Look, I'm just trying to get us out of here. Do you have the key, or do I need to find the warden?"
Ben scoffed, the sound of jingling metal coming from his pocket. "I've got the key, rookie. But I'm staying right here. It's a lot safer behind these bars than out there with the sleepwalkers."
"Safe?" Leon gestured to the hallway. "The city is gone, Ben. The 'sleepwalkers' are just the start."
Suddenly, a sound tore through the silence—a sharp, violent roar that vibrated through the masonry. It was a scream of primal, bloodthirsty madness that made the hair on Leon's neck stand up.
Ben went pale. He pointed a shaking finger toward the door. "See? Hear that? That's the thing that's been hunting the halls. I'm not going out there to be an appetizer. Leave now, kid, before it smells you."
"Listen to me!" Leon grabbed the bars, his voice dropping into a hard, low growl. "Every cop in this building is dead. I'm the only thing standing between you and that roar. If you want to live, you're coming with me."
The bravado drained out of Ben like water from a sieve. He slumped to the floor, his head in his hands. "It's no use... we can't escape. The exits are all dead-bolted."
"There's always a way," Leon pressed.
Ben looked up, his eyes bloodshot. "The kennel... there's a maintenance hatch. It leads to the underground sewage facility. Irons has a private office down there with an elevator. It's the only way out of the quarantine zone."
He started to shake again, his teeth chattering. "But the things in the water... they aren't human. They never were."
Leon frowned, wondering how a reporter knew the internal plumbing of a secret Umbrella facility, but he didn't have time for a cross-examination. "I'll go check it out. Stay put."
Ben just waved him off, looking defeated. "Good luck, rookie. You're gonna need it."
Leon returned to the parking lot, but the Lady in Red was gone.
The transport van was a charred skeleton, still hissing as the last of the gasoline burned out. The spot where the Tyrant had been pinned was empty, save for a pool of scorched, black sludge.
A pang of disappointment hit him, sharper than he expected. He shook it off and headed for the Armory.
The lock was a joke—two hits with his gunstock and he was in. The racks were mostly bare, but he managed to find a handful of 9mm rounds and a few precious shells tucked in a corner box. He sat against the wall, finally allowing his fatigue to catch up with him. He pulled out the energy bar Noah had given him earlier and a bottle of water.
He was halfway through the dry, chalky bar when the door creaked.
A silhouette in flame-red stood in the doorway. Ada.
Leon's face lit up, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten. "Hey! You're back!" He stood, offering the water bottle. "Come on in. You look like you could use a break too."
Ada walked into the small room, her heels clicking softly on the concrete. She didn't reject the offer, taking the water and a chocolate bar Leon held out. She sat on an ammo crate with a natural, effortless poise that made the dirty armory look like a high-end lounge.
She took a small, elegant bite of the chocolate before looking at him. Her eyes were sharp, but the icy distance had thawed just a fraction.
"Did you find Ben?" she asked.
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