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"Hwaaaaah—!!!"
The sound that erupted from William Birkin was no longer human. It was a jagged sonic wave of beastly fury and biological agony that made the iron bridge vibrate beneath their boots. The pipes in the abyss below seemed to groan in sympathy.
He brandished the massive steel pipe—deformed by the crushing grip of his mutated hand—and lurched toward them. His movements were a grotesque struggle; his right side, swollen with G-virus muscle and the massive, lidless eye, surged forward with a mindless impulse to destroy. Yet his left side, still mostly human, moved with a stiff, agonizing reluctance.
He was a man at war with himself.
"His consciousness is still there..." Noah whispered, his voice low but sharp. He didn't lower his Colt Python. "Birkin is fighting the virus for control of his own limbs!"
Facing this titan of meat and madness, the blood of the three survivors didn't run cold. Instead, it boiled. The acquisition of Irons' private arsenal had changed the stakes. They weren't just prey anymore; they were the hunters.
"Is that so?" Claire's lips curled into a dangerous, razor-thin smile. She braced the MP5 against her shoulder, her gaze locked onto the giant eyeball. "Then let's do him a favor and end the struggle!"
Leon didn't say a word. He gripped the Desert Eagle with both hands, his focus so absolute that the world seemed to shrink down to the sights of his gun and the monster in front of him.
"ROAR!"
The last of Birkin's sanity snapped. The G-virus took the wheel. He accelerated with the momentum of a runaway freight train, the iron mesh buckling under his mutated weight.
"Now!" Claire barked.
Da-da-da-da-da-da—!
The MP5 screamed to life. A leaden storm of 9mm rounds peppered Birkin's right shoulder. Sparks flew as the bullets ricocheted off the hardened keratin plates protecting the eye, but the sheer volume of fire slowed him down.
"Too thick!" Leon roared over the chatter of the submachine gun.
CANNON-BLAST.
The Desert Eagle let out a heavy, warhammer roar. The .50 Magnum round carried enough kinetic energy to stop a charging bull. It punched through the keratin on Birkin's shoulder, geysering dark green fluid.
Birkin shrieked, his charge faltering. Claire seized the moment. She dropped the MP5 to its sling and, with a blur of motion, snapped a Flame Grenade into her M79.
"Taste this!"
KABOOM.
The grenade struck Birkin's chest, detonating into a ball of orange-red hellfire. The high-explosive incendiary clung to his mutated flesh like melting wax.
"Aaaaaah—!!!"
The scream was shrill, the sound of a father and a monster burning together. Birkin staggered back, pawing at the flames that were melting his skin at a visible rate.
"Don't let up!" Leon followed with two more .50 rounds, each one tearing chunks of meat from the creature's chest. Claire reloaded with an Acid Round, the dark green chemical hissing as it hit the flames, sending up clouds of toxic white smoke.
The combined assault was too much. The G1 form's will to fight shattered. Birkin let out a final, resonant wail of resentment and pain. He lurched toward the railing, his human left hand gripping the steel for a fraction of a second before he vaulted over the edge, plummeting into the bottomless dark of the lower sewers.
Splash.
A distant, heavy thud in the water below marked the end of the encounter.
The air was thick with the scent of cordite and burnt meat.
Claire let out a sharp whistle, slinging the smoking grenade launcher. "Finally. Someone take the trash out."
The lid of the red metal toolbox creaked open. Sherry poked her head out, her eyes searching the bridge. "The... the monster?"
Leon holstered the Desert Eagle, pointing to the blood-stained railing. "He's gone, Sherry. He won't be back for a long time."
Sherry walked slowly to the edge. She gripped the cold railing, staring down into the darkness where her father had fallen. Her face was a mask of stoic grief, but her small hands were shaking. Claire stepped up behind her, pulling the girl into a warm, protective embrace.
"It's okay, Sherry," Claire whispered. "You still have us."
Noah and Leon knelt beside them. "We're staying with you," Leon promised. "I give you my word."
The dam finally broke. Sherry turned and buried her face in Claire's jacket, her sobs echoing in the cold steel labyrinth. But this time, the tears weren't just from fear—they were the release of a child who finally realized she wasn't alone.
After a few minutes, they pressed on. They were nearing the core of the facility when the sound of rapid gunfire echoed from around a distant corner. A flash of red silk flickered past the junction.
Leon's eyes lit up. His heart did a sudden, traitorous flip in his chest. "Something's happening! Support! Move!"
Before Noah or Claire could blink, the rookie was gone, sprinting toward the noise with a speed that was almost embarrassing.
"Leo—" Claire started, then stopped as Noah touched her arm with a knowing grin.
"Remember the 'beautiful FBI agent' he mentioned?" Noah whispered.
Claire froze, then a look of pure, unadulterated gossip sparked in her eyes. "You mean... Leon? He's...?"
Noah nodded solemnly.
"Wow," Claire breathed, her maternal concern for Sherry momentarily eclipsed by the thrill of a new romance. "I have to see this."
When they rounded the corner, they found Leon standing on a wide platform, talking to a woman in a red Qipao. On the floor lay a steaming, unrecognizable puddle of flesh—the remains of a fresh kill.
"Ada! Let me introduce you," Leon said, his voice bright. He gestured to his friends. "This is Noah, my buddy from the West Wing. And Claire. And this little one is Sherry."
Ada Wong turned. Her beauty was surgical—sharp, elegant, and overwhelming. Her gaze swept over Noah and Claire with a cool detachment, but paused for a heartbeat on Sherry before settling back into its icy composure.
Leon gestured to the bloody sludge at her feet. "By the way," he said with a dry, dark humor, "meet our Raccoon City Police Chief, Mr. Brian Irons."
The iceberg of Ada's expression finally cracked. She looked at the puddle, then back at Leon, and the corners of her mouth curled into a genuine, mocking smirk.
"Is that so?" she said, her voice a melodic purr. "Your department's selection process is certainly... creative."
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