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Jack looked at Jill's face, his lips curling into that familiar mischievous smile. "Jill, you're not shy anymore."
Jill's tone was calm but edged with irritation. "No."
Jack laughed softly, tilting his head as he studied her expression. "Looking at you now—honestly, anyone would want to say the truth. Don't worry, I won't laugh." A pause. Then he chuckled again, unable to hold it back. "Haha, sorry, I couldn't help it." His laughter rolled through the ruined silence of the world, a strange sound in such a desolate place.
Jill glared at him. "I said—"
"Okay, okay, fine. No more."
"Don't hug me. I don't know you." Jill tried to push him away, her voice sharp and defensive.
Jack suddenly caught her wrists, pressing her gently but firmly down beneath him. "Be serious," he said in a low voice. "I'm not trying to act like some kind of hero—but you seem to like being on top, don't you?"
Jill's eyes widened. "You—!"
The world around them was silent except for the distant moan of wind scraping across the ruins. Somewhere in the background, broken glass rattled, and the faint echo of a collapsing building rolled like distant thunder.
Then—
The scene shifted.
---
The sky was torn with clouds of dust and ash as Jack sprinted through the air, holding Jill tightly against his chest. The world below stretched out in chaos—cracked highways, skeletal buildings, and rivers of smoke drifting from the ruins of forgotten towns.
"Where are we going?" Jill asked, her voice trembling slightly against the rush of wind.
Jack's expression hardened. "We're looking for Carlos and the others. I believe they still need my help." His tone was calm, but there was a quiet fire in his eyes, the kind that only comes from someone who's seen too much loss.
Jill's lips curled into a faint smirk. "I thought you were looking for Terri. I bet she's dying to see you again."
Jack gave a helpless sigh. "What can I say? Being this attractive is a curse."
Jill rolled her eyes. "Why aren't you dead yet?"
Jack grinned, the corners of his mouth twisting upward. "If I died, Jill, you'd be a widow."
"Go away! You and I have nothing to do with each other." Jill turned her head sharply, refusing to look at him.
Jack leaned closer, voice teasing. "That mouth that kissed me earlier says otherwise."
"Gǔn! Gǔn! Gǔn!" Jill's frustrated snarl was all he got back.
---
Down on Earth, the last fragments of humanity struggled to survive. The living clung to life in the shadows of the dead. Cities had fallen long ago—now they were graveyards of steel and silence. The lucky few hid in abandoned towns or underground shelters, scavenging for food, fuel, and hope.
The deserts of Nevada stretched endlessly under a burning sky. The air shimmered with heat; the cracked road cut across the wasteland like a scar. On either side, only sand and dust remained—lifeless and empty.
A single zombie crouched over a corpse, its teeth tearing wetly through decayed flesh. The world had no mercy left for such sights—they were common now, as ordinary as breathing.
The creature paused, lifting its ruined head at the distant growl of an engine.
Bang!
A car slammed into the zombie, sending its body spinning through the air. It landed with a crunch before a massive blade shot forward from the front bumper, slicing through its skull. Blood sprayed across the vehicle's hood, black and thick in the burning sunlight.
The driver let out a yell of satisfaction, pounding the steering wheel. "That's how you do it!"
A convoy of five vehicles thundered down the highway—an old school bus, an ambulance, a news van, a military jeep, and a battered oil truck. Inside each, survivors clung to what little strength they had left.
A voice crackled through the radio. "Carlos, you got any smoke? It's me, Claire."
In the lead van sat Claire Redfield, her red jacket dusty from travel, golden hair tied back. Her voice was confident but heavy, the voice of someone who had learned to lead through pain.
The reply came from the oil truck. "No smokes left, Claire."
Carlos Oliveira leaned against the steering wheel, exhaustion etched into every line of his face.
Claire smiled faintly. "I almost believe you this time."
Carlos chuckled, glancing at the passenger seat. "Claire, what would I gain by lying to you?"
Beside him sat Terri Morales, her once bright eyes now hollow with fatigue. She was thinner than before, paler, clutching a camera in her hands—a relic of her past life as a journalist.
Carlos noticed her silence. "Still thinking about the devil?"
Terri didn't look up. "Jack isn't the devil. He never hurt us. He saved us. If he wanted to kill us, it would've been easy."
Carlos sighed. "Maybe. But he's not coming back."
Terri's voice hardened. "He promised we'd meet again. I believe him."
The desert wind howled outside, sweeping dust against the windows as the convoy pushed forward toward nowhere.
---
Miles ahead, an abandoned gas station stood like a skeleton in the sand. A single motorcycle idled outside, its engine growling low. The rider dismounted slowly, boots crunching over broken glass.
The woman wore dark sunglasses and a scarf covering her lower face, her every movement sharp and alert. It was Alice, the lone wanderer who had survived Umbrella's cruel experiments.
She scanned the area before moving toward the building. The glass doors were shattered, the air thick with decay. Inside, the world smelled like rust, gasoline, and something far worse.
Alice pushed open the door to the workroom. Flies buzzed madly in the stale air.
"Cough… cough…" She covered her mouth, forcing herself to breathe through her nose.
A body hung from the ceiling, half-rotted, swinging gently in the heat. The sight was horrific, but Alice didn't flinch. She'd seen far worse.
Her eyes moved across the floor until she spotted a small, blood-stained notebook lying near a toppled chair. She crouched, picked it up, and flipped through its pages. The ink was smeared, but the drawings—maps, symbols, numbers—were clear enough to recognize Umbrella's work.
Stepping back into the sunlight, Alice turned on her motorcycle's radio. A static-filled voice echoed across the wasteland:
> "This is Claire Redfield's convoy. We are searching for survivors. Repeat, this is Claire Redfield's convoy…"
Alice didn't speak. She just listened, staring at the empty horizon while the hot wind whipped around her. Then, slowly, she looked down at the notebook again. One page in particular caught her eye—a hand-drawn satellite route with Umbrella's tracking codes.
She closed the book, her thoughts sinking into the quiet void of guilt and memory.
Under Umbrella's control, she had killed Angela. The memory burned like acid, refusing to fade. When her mind had finally broken free, she had been left with nothing but guilt and blood on her hands.
Umbrella still watched her. She knew that every movement she made might be seen, every breath monitored by invisible eyes. They could trace her at any time—control her again.
That was why she stayed alone.
To protect them all.
Claire. Carlos. Jill. Even Jack—the strange, unpredictable fighter who seemed half monster, half man.
She would watch them from a distance, always hidden, always protecting.
The sun dipped lower, painting the horizon in crimson light. Alice started her engine. The roar of the motorcycle cut through the silence like a heartbeat in a dead world.
The road stretched ahead—endless, uncertain, but waiting. Behind her, the gas station crumbled quietly into dust.
The wind carried the faint echo of her voice as she whispered to the empty desert,
"Umbrella's still out there… and so am I."