Night.
Forest.
An eerie mansion.
The corpse of fellow operative Kevin Dooley—mangled, face gnawed, torso torn open in a grotesque display.
That face in the dark—turning back to look—pale, rotting, inhuman...
Huff...
Leaning forward with his head bowed, Chris Redfield took a deep breath.
When he finally opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was a massive red-and-white umbrella emblem tiled into the floor, silver-plated and ceramic-glazed, gleaming, spotless.
"Umbrella..."
The name came out like a growl from his throat. Muscles on his face twitched with rage, his bloodshot eyes burning.
Chris would never forget that night—what happened on July 24.
As a member of Raccoon City Police Department's S.T.A.R.S. Alpha Team (Special Tactics and Rescue Service), he had taken part in the operation investigating the so-called "cult" cases in the Arklay Mountains earlier that spring.
He swore it was the nightmare of his life.
"Cult," his ass.
It was zombies. The undead. Bio-weapons. And the sins of the U.S. military and Umbrella Corporation.
For the past two months, every time he closed his eyes, Chris would dream he was back in that damned mansion—facing rotting, pus-leaking, bloodied corpses lunging at him. Facing monstrous results of grotesque biological experiments.
"...Heh. An Umbrella executive. Hope this is worth it."
Chris lifted his head. Under the bright, high-tech chandeliers of the newly built Umbrella HQ lobby in San Francisco Industrial Park, the place looked like daylight—causing Chris, who'd grown used to creeping through darkness, to squint unconsciously.
After surviving the mansion ordeal, he'd received treatment and recovery care at Raccoon General Hospital. Alongside Jill, Barry, and Rebecca—fellow S.T.A.R.S. survivors—they had repeatedly tried to expose Umbrella's crimes to the authorities.
But you can't fight the machine.
Umbrella controlled every lifeline in Raccoon City, and they crushed the story.
Letters to the FBI vanished into the void. No response. Even S.T.A.R.S. itself was forcibly shut down. Chris had no choice but to keep gathering dirt on Umbrella—hunting for proof of their bio-research in any way he could.
Due to some extreme actions along the way, he was even suspended from duty. But Chris never gave up. Using the suspension as a pretext, he planned to take a "vacation" to Europe—and continue his investigation at Umbrella's Paris HQ.
Progress was agonizingly slow.
Then came Rebecca's letter, offering a new path.
Originally invited to serve in the S.T.A.R.S. Exeter Branch in Maine, Rebecca had shown up in California out of the blue, claiming she might be able to fracture Umbrella from the inside.
To Chris, it sounded like total bullshit.
Umbrella turning on itself? Tearing itself apart?
Still... it was something. A desperate something.
At this point, waiting around meant nothing. Better to take a chance.
Fueled by justice—and a thirst to avenge his fallen teammates—Chris quietly returned from Europe.
After reuniting with Rebecca in San Francisco, he scolded her for the reckless plan, but then took over surveillance duties himself, tailing targets and observing movements.
He learned about today's major deal between the Pentagon and Umbrella. After confirming the defense department's motorcade had departed and Vela was still inside the facility, Chris approached the edge of Umbrella's industrial park. Identifying himself as a former Raccoon City S.T.A.R.S. officer, he demanded to see Vela—claiming to hold crucial company secrets.
After S.T.A.R.S. was restructured in 1996, its largest financial sponsor had become none other than Umbrella Corporation. A semi-public fact.
Umbrella employees here were surely aware of that.
"Mr. Redfield? Please follow me—Director Russell will see you now."
Before long, the secretary returned with security personnel to escort him.
"...."
Silent, Chris stood up.
Even knowing there were uninformed people within Umbrella, or that different branches varied, he still felt no warmth toward anyone wearing that red-and-white umbrella lapel pin.
Ding.
The elevator doors slid open. Chris, lost in thought, followed the secretary.
As they walked down the wide corridor—clearly under surveillance—Chris reviewed what he and Rebecca had managed to piece together about this so-called Director Russell.
Vela Adelheid Russell.
Born 1976. Age 22.
German-American. (Note: California and Pennsylvania have the largest German-American populations.)
"Adelheid"—a traditional German middle or baptismal name, associated with nobility.
A genius. Umbrella's youngest executive and chief researcher. Head of the Black Umbrella Division.
Graduated early from UC Berkeley's College of Engineering, having skipped multiple grades.
Her parents died in an accident during her student years. After graduation, she joined Umbrella's California Division and rose rapidly, becoming known for her expertise across mechanical engineering, bionics, ergonomics, intelligent systems, and electronic information.
A textbook genius-success story.
Her deep focus on prosthetics and bionics was believed to stem from her parents' accident.
A known critic of Umbrella's legacy approach, she had publicly denounced the corporation's excessive investment in medical and biological research. She was also the lead force behind Umbrella's recent diversification beyond healthcare.
That damned mansion had likely existed long before this Director Russell was even born.
Compared to the fragmented info Chris had scraped together on the G-virus and William Birkin in Raccoon City, Vela had clearly joined Umbrella far too late to be part of the original T-virus, G-virus, or BOW initiatives.
In fact, her professional rivalry with Birkin and her dismissal of his work as disproportionate in cost to benefit was gossip even the lowest-level Umbrella employees in Raccoon City had heard.
Given her conduct at press conferences and panel discussions, she now seemed like the highest-potential weak point in the corporation.
With that thought, Chris finally felt a sliver of hope for this meeting.
Rebecca, I hope you're right.
Tap tap—
Footsteps halted. Chris turned his head to see heavily armed corporate security converging on him. He looked back at the secretary. "What is this?"
Secretary: "Mr. Redfield, please don't be alarmed—this is standard procedure. Please step into the scanner for a body check. Your cooperation is appreciated."
Chris's face remained blank, but he wasn't about to back out now. "Fine."
He stepped between two scanning pillars. Two towering guards approached to search him thoroughly. One of them held a long, slim device with a built-in display—something Chris couldn't quite identify. A metal detector?
It was only now that Chris began to study Umbrella's guards more closely.
First of all, they were intimidating—tall, heavily built men.
Second, their gear far outclassed that of S.T.A.R.S.—completely covered, head to toe. Black stab-resistant uniforms, black military boots, tactical gloves, black jumpsuits, kneepads, elbow guards, aramid heavy ballistic vests with armor plates, and…
Hiss…
What model was that rifle?
He had never seen it before.
As a former Air Force pilot, police officer, and SWAT operator—not to mention a regular participant and champion in shooting competitions—Chris wouldn't claim to know every weapon on Earth. But anything well-known or highly rated in the industry? He'd used it, hands-on.
From Chris's experienced perspective, these security guards' weapons were on par in craftsmanship with prize firearms he'd seen at shooting competitions—minus the personalization.
"Your belongings will be held in safekeeping, Mr. Redfield."
The search complete, the guards placed a Beretta M92F, a combat knife, a spare magazine, a wallet, a set of keys, a Nokia phone, and a waist pouch containing film, CDs, and a CAM flash drive onto a long table.
The secretary twitched slightly at the sight but said nothing. "This way, please."
They advanced several more paces to a door that looked thick—and ridiculously expensive.
Knock knock.
"Director, Mr. Redfield has arrived."
"Let him in."
A cool female voice answered from within.
The secretary stepped aside.
Chris squared his shoulders. No backing down.
Worst case? Death. He'd already given Rebecca a copy of all the info he had. He'd even recorded video before entering the Umbrella facility—if anything happened to him, it could become a case against the corporation.
Creak.
He pushed the door open.
Chris scanned the office quickly, noting every detail.
It was nothing like that damned mansion—or the Umbrella Tower in Raccoon City.
Spacious, minimalist, and bright. At least 300 square meters. One entire wall was dark-tinted floor-to-ceiling glass. A semi-circular desk—elegant and sleek, a cross between wood and metal—sat off to the side with a 27-inch monitor, no tower in sight. A black leather executive chair behind it.
The ceiling was high, with a recessed section above the desk likely housing advanced communication and electronic equipment.
One wall was divided into three sections. A bookcase. A small alcove with a wine bar, mini fridge, and lounge. The other side held a guest seating area—couch, coffee table.
A special ripple-pattern floor material spread through the center of the room like a carpet.
There she was. A striking woman, seated at the desk with her legs crossed, raising a teacup to her lips. She took a sip, then nodded to him.
"Welcome, Mr. Redfield."
Her tone was curious and composed. Vela spoke first.
Tsk tsk, look who it is.
Over 185 cm tall, dark brown slicked-back hair, strong frame—maybe not the walking mountain of muscle he'd later become, but solid nonetheless. His youthful face already showed that hard-edged tenacity—the kind that could take on a Tyrant in hand-to-hand.
Chris.
Vela genuinely hadn't expected one of Resident Evil's destined protagonists to show up at her door voluntarily.
"Director Russell, you know what's happening in Raccoon City, right?"
Though Vela projected elegance and composure, Chris—ever the straight-edge soldier who'd ignored even his beautiful female partners—had zero interest in small talk. He went straight to the point.
"What? William Birkin, that washed-up middle-aged crank, can't even manage his own territory now? You, a Raccoon City SWAT guy, coming to beg for help? Hah. Sure, I'd love to kick Birkin off the U.S. project lead, but he's an old-timer—still has some clout with the board."
Vela raised an eyebrow and set her teacup down.
Alright, if you want direct—no tea, no pleasantries. Straight talk it is.
"You... no, they're researching virus weapons!"
"And bio-weapon research falls under national defense. What, are you still a kid who sees the world in black and white? You used to be Air Force, didn't you?"
Vela replied with practiced diplomacy. "That's White Umbrella and Birkin's department. If you have issues, bring them to the board. I don't interfere in their work, and they don't touch mine. That's the rule."
"Rules? Your rules?! People are dying! F*ck you! So many people are dead! And you're sitting here, safe and cozy in your luxurious office, talking like this..."
Still only twenty-five, Chris's composure had its limits. Vela's cool indifference hit a nerve, and all the rage and frustration he'd been bottling up during his suppressed investigation into Umbrella exploded.
Bang bang.
"Watch your language."
Vela glanced at his clenched jaw, rapped the table with her fingers, and said firmly, "Or I can have you escorted out."
Huff... huff...
Chris took a deep breath and locked eyes with her. "You really don't know?"
"I know. But as a professional corporate executive, I don't chase after every little detail, and I don't want to."
Vela answered instantly, without fear, stepping forward until she stood directly in front of Chris. She looked him in the eye and said clearly, "That's why I agreed to see you—because I want to hear what you know about the situation in Raccoon City."
She turned and walked over to the guest seating area, motioning for Chris to sit.
"So, S.T.A.R.S. from Raccoon City has come all the way here—did William Birkin finally regress into a useless old man? Fumbled the containment, turned a research leak into a full-on biohazard? If that's true, he's—"
"It is a biohazard. The corpses are moving. The dead are walking."
Chris didn't sit. He walked directly to her, face solemn like never before.
"This is your Umbrella's sin. If you have a shred of conscience, make the truth public. Your team confiscated my bag—that contains the evidence I collected."
Vela paused, leaning back on the couch. His words gave her a moment of reflection. Then she smiled.
"You're not afraid that as an Umbrella executive, I might destroy the evidence—or have you silenced?"
"Go ahead and try. I never expected to leave this viper's nest in one piece."
"Then why not try to kidnap me? Force me to comply?"
"No. I don't do that. I don't lash out at the innocent."
Chris's voice was firm. "You're neither a villain nor a saint. You're a genius—my friends in the military say the same. The prosthetics you designed helped wounded comrades embrace life again. Society needs you. Umbrella has criminals who aid evil, but there are innocent people too."
Heh. Vela gave a soft laugh.
So the young Chris could talk like this now?
"So you're saying—if I don't stand with you, I'm enabling evil?"
Chris nodded.
"...."
Vela said nothing more. She returned to her desk.
She picked up the intercom and asked the secretary to bring Chris's belongings. From the waist pouch, she extracted the flash drive and scanned through its contents.
Chris stood silently, watching her facial expressions shift.
After a while, Vela looked up.
"Not enough."
Chris frowned. "What do you mean?"
"This fragmented evidence—Birkin can easily sue me for defamation. He'll spin it as special effects. They know I have tech that can fake this. What I need is hard proof: their internal research data, or an actual specimen."
"You mean..."
"I need you to go back to Raccoon City."
Vela dropped all pretense.
The cards were on the table.