September 29. Raccoon City. 12:15 A.M.
As John walked toward the exit, limping slightly—a detail he tried to hide by clenching his jaw—he felt the weight of several eyes on him. They were not the looks of hatred and "child killer" accusation that had greeted him minutes before. Now there was a mix of awe, terror, and forced gratitude. They had seen the beast. They had seen it tear apart the UBCS soldiers as if they were paper dolls. And they had seen John, a mortal man in a shredded suit, walk toward that meat grinder and force it to retreat.
John did not return the stares. His mind was trapped in the dead child's shoe on the platform, a memory that had become the anchor of his guilt. The child's face, the blood, the futility of his personal revenge; it was all constant white noise in his head, isolating him from the world.
"You're dry," a voice said beside him.
Carlos approached, walking backward as he covered the rear with his rifle. Without taking his eyes off the pile of rubble where Nemesis rested, he reached into his tactical vest.
"Take this. I saw you empty everything you had into that bastard," Carlos said, tossing him two boxes of heavy ammunition and an extended 9mm magazine. "That's military-grade buckshot and hollow-point for your pistol. Make them count. The city is full of surprises."
John caught the ammunition in the air with a reflexive movement. His blue eyes, darkened by fatigue, met Carlos's. He nodded, a brief, almost imperceptible gesture that was worth a volume of thanks.
"...Thanks."
"Don't thank me, man. I just want to make sure that if that thing gets up, you're the first one to greet him, and I'm the second," Carlos replied with a tense half-smile, before running to help Mikhail, who could barely stand.
The group emerged onto the streets of Raccoon City. The fresh air was a lie; it smelled of smoke, ozone, burnt fuel, and the metallic sweetness of death.
"The Captain says extraction is at the Clock Tower," Carlos announced, slinging Mikhail Victor's arm over his shoulder. "A rescue chopper will be here in less than twenty minutes. It's our only way out."
"The Clock Tower..." Jill murmured, adjusting the strap of her grenade launcher. "That's about twelve blocks. We have to cross the commercial district. It won't be a walk."
John didn't reply. He simply took the lead, raising the Benelli. His body was a map of pain, with every step sending waves of agony from his wounded side, but his discipline kept him moving relentlessly.
The march toward the tower was not a walk. It was a tactical incursion through an urban war zone. The fog had thickened, creating an opaque veil that drowned out the streetlights, and the silence of the streets was deceptive.
Crossing a small square surrounded by looted luxury stores, John stopped dead. He raised a closed fist. The group instantly froze.
Jill came to his side, whispering.
"What do you see?"
John didn't speak. He just tilted his head slightly to the left, toward the viscous darkness of an alley.
A low, guttural, wet growl broke the silence. It was not the dragging moan of a human zombie. It was something more primitive, more agile, the sound of pure predatory muscle.
Bright red eyes emerged from the fog at ground level. One, two, five pairs of eyes.
Dogs. But not normal animals. Their skin was rotten, exposing red muscles and tendons, a grotesque mixture of speed and putrefaction; their jaws were open in a permanent rictus of ravenous hunger, dripping infectious saliva. Dobermans infected by the T-Virus. Cerberus.
"Shit... they're fast," Ada whispered, drawing her submachine gun with icy calm, positioning herself to John's right.
Jill loaded her assault shotgun.
"Watch the flanks. They're going to try to surround us. If one bites... it's over."
There were six beasts. And they attacked in unison with blinding speed, a bolt of flesh and teeth.
There was no warning. The Cerberus launched themselves like missiles.
John didn't shout orders. He acted.
The first dog leaped straight for his throat, aiming for the softest spot. John didn't back down. He stepped forward, receiving the impact with his left forearm wrapped in the Kevlar-armored suit. The beast's teeth sank into the ballistic fabric but didn't penetrate the high-grade protection. The pain, dull through the armor, reminded him of the wound in his side.
With the dog hanging from his arm, John raised the Benelli with a single hand, pressed the barrel against the animal's exposed side, just behind the ribs, and pulled the trigger.
BOOM!
The buckshot load shredded the creature in a red cloud, sending the corpse flying like a trash bag.
To his right, Ada moved like a lethal dancer, a silhouette in red and black. A Cerberus tried to bite her legs. She leaped with feline agility, resting a gloved hand on the hood of an overturned car, and as she spun in the air, she fired a short burst with her TMP. The bullets traced a perfect line through the animal's skull, silencing it before it hit the ground.
"Left!" Jill shouted, her voice tense.
Two dogs charged the civilians, who had frozen in terror. Jill stepped in, using the stock of her shotgun to deflect a bite and firing point-blank at the second. The first recovered and lunged at her, but before it could touch her, two dry shots rang out from John's position.
Pfut. Pfut.
John's P30L pistol was smoking. The dog attacking Jill fell dead in mid-air with two holes in its head. John had drawn, aimed, and fired in a fraction of a second, all while reloading his shotgun with his other hand. His efficiency was terrifying, a two-armed killing machine.
The last dog, the largest and most muscular, tried to flank Carlos and Mikhail. But the team was an insurmountable wall of lead. Carlos and John opened fire simultaneously. The beast was ripped apart before it hit the ground.
Silence returned, broken only by the change of magazines and the shallow breathing of the survivors.
Jill took a deep breath, looking at John.
"Thanks for the cover," she said, her heart pounding, her hands still shaking.
John merely nodded, holstering the pistol and taking the shotgun with both hands again. His breathing was heavy, and Jill noticed how his hand trembled slightly before gripping the weapon.
Ada approached, looking at the canine corpses with an elegantly disgusted grimace.
"Charming," Ada said, shaking a drop of blood from her high-heeled shoe. "Umbrella truly has a fetish for turning man's best friend into a mutated nightmare."
"They're biological weapons, Ada. Not pets," Jill replied dryly, although there was a hint of camaraderie forged in the fire. "Good shot, by the way."
"I do what I can, Valentine. You never know when a good pair of heels can serve as a firing platform."
The trio resumed the march. They now walked in a tighter formation: John in the center, Jill on the left, Ada on the right. A lethal phalanx.
As they walked, Jill broke the silence, unable to bear John's stoic muteness.
"John," she said softly, taking advantage of the fact that the civilians were a few yards behind. "That wound in your side... it's slowing you down. I saw it when the dog attacked you. It took you half a second longer to raise your arm. The fatigue is showing."
John continued to look straight ahead.
"It's irrelevant."
"It's not irrelevant if you get killed," Ada intervened, her voice soft but sharp, like broken glass. She walked with an elegance that seemed to defy the filth of the environment, although John noticed her step wasn't as light as before.
Jill looked at Ada, then at John.
"She's right. John, you're bleeding through the suit. When we reach the chopper, you'll need immediate medical attention. You're running on empty."
"I'll worry about that when we're airborne," John growled, the sound harsh and dry.
Ada let out a soft chuckle.
"It's useless, Jill. The man is a machine. He probably just needs an oil change, or perhaps he's found that guilt is an excellent fuel."
Jill rolled her eyes, but there was a tense smile on her face.
"You two are impossible. A suicidal man in armor and a mercenary in a cocktail dress."
"And you're the police officer trying to hand out tickets and morality in the apocalypse," Ada retorted with a mischievous smile, enjoying the tension. "But look at us. The three monsters of Raccoon City."
A few minutes later, the group stopped briefly so Mikhail could rest. The Russian captain was pale, cold sweat beading on his forehead. Carlos carefully gave him water.
John stepped aside slightly, watching the perimeter. He noticed Ada leaning against a brick wall, examining her own arm.
The red dress, previously a statement of immaculate style, now told the story of the night. The hem was torn, revealing a bruised leg. Cement dust covered the silk, and on her pale forearms, several deep scratches were slowly bleeding.
John approached. He said nothing at first, just stood next to her. His presence was a monolithic shadow.
Ada looked up, quickly hiding a grimace of pain behind her usual enigmatic smile.
"Come to admire the scenery, John? Or to make sure my pulse is still beating?"
John ignored the provocation. His eyes settled on the cuts on her arm.
"You're hurt."
Ada followed his gaze and shrugged, a movement that lacked her usual fluidity.
"Collateral damage. The price of doing business with you. But at least it's a more interesting conversation starter than the usual graveyard silence you manage."
John reached into his suit's inner pocket and pulled out a cloth handkerchief, clean and folded. He handed it to her silently.
Ada looked at the handkerchief and then at John, a spark of genuine surprise crossing her dark eyes.
"Wow. A legendary assassin carrying silk handkerchiefs. What other gentlemanly secrets do you keep in that armor, Mr. Wick? A monocle, perhaps?"
"Press the wound," John said, his voice low and hoarse. "It will get infected if you don't cover it. It's stupid to die from neglect."
Ada pressed the cloth against her arm, and her smile became softer, less theatrical. She took one step closer to him, invading his personal space with that mix of danger and attraction that always surrounded her. She whispered, her breath warm against John's neck.
"You know, John? I look terrible. Dust, blood, this ruined dress..."
John looked at her, and for the first time all night, a shadow of irony crossed his tired gaze.
"Considering the environment... I'd say blood red is the only appropriate dress code tonight," John said, with a dry, unexpected sarcasm that cracked his stoic facade.
Ada blinked, surprised. She expected silence or stoicism, not that sharp remark. She let out a small, almost genuine, disbelieving laugh.
"Well. So there's a sense of humor beneath the Kevlar." Her smile slowly faded, replaced by an inquisitive, penetrating look. "You've been acting like an iceberg since we left the subway, John. Is it because of what happened at the station? Are you blaming yourself for those people's deaths?"
John didn't answer immediately. His gaze darkened, lost on the broken asphalt, where the reflections of distant flames danced in the puddles of blood.
"If I hadn't gone down to that station... those people would be alive," he finally said, with a resigned calm that weighed more than a scream. It was the confession of a man who sees himself as a catalyst for fate. "I knew that monster was tracking me. But my curiosity... my need for personal vengeance against Umbrella... put them in the path of the bullet. I am the reason for their fate."
He turned slightly, watching Jill, who a few yards away was sharing her canteen with an injured civilian, with a dedication that seemed almost naive to John.
"If only I had listened to Jill when she said it was dangerous..." he murmured, the guilt etched into his voice, the remorse for not having isolated his own war.
Ada followed his gaze toward Jill and the civilians. She let out a long, loud sigh, loaded with genuine exasperation at human weakness.
"Please, John." Ada shook her head, looking at the survivors with a chilling indifference that was her own armor. "For all I care, all those civilians can die. I don't know them, and frankly, I don't care about their lives. They are irrelevant to our objective."
John looked at her, his eyes, though tired, were accusatory, but she didn't back down. Her dark eyes shone with a cruel, disillusioned pragmatism.
"And I don't know why you think this way? Do you think you're some kind of hero now? The great John Wick, redeemer of Raccoon City?" she asked, with a biting tone. "Or is it a form of cheap, late redemption for the countless lives you've taken, whether for one banner or another? In the end, the tally isn't erased, John. You're a monster just like me, only with better tailoring."
Ada took one more step closer, almost touching his chest, lowering her voice so that only he could hear the harshness of her truth, the weight of her nihilism.
"In the end, humans are not innocent. Remember this: when you arrived at the station, those same people wanted to kill you with their own hands over a stupid rumor, out of fear. They were a violent mob, not lambs." Ada looked at the group again, with absolute contempt, her finger almost brushing John's suit. "And I say... let them die."
In that instant, the physical distance between them was almost nil. John, immobile in his silent pain and charged guilt, and Ada, invading his personal sphere with her cynical defiance, dismantling his morality. She was close enough that the smell of gunpowder, expensive perfume, and dried blood mixed in the air. To anyone watching them from afar, like Jill or Carlos, the scene didn't look like a harsh ideological confrontation or a stand-off, but an intensely intimate exchange, a moment of vulnerable and dangerous connection in the heart of the apocalypse. The red silk and the black suit brushed together, two lethal shadows sharing an uncomfortable truth.
"Hey! We're almost there!" Carlos's shout broke the intimate moment and the philosophical tension, forcing them to step back.
Mikhail had gotten to his feet, swaying.
"Let's go... I can't die here... I won't give Nicholai the satisfaction..." the Russian muttered, his hatred giving him borrowed strength, a small flame of personal vengeance.
Carlos looked at John and the two women.
"It's the next block. The Clock Tower. Keep your heads down."
The group resumed the march, turning the last corner.
And there it was. St. Michael's Clock Tower stood before them, majestic and Gothic against Raccoon's fiery sky. Its large illuminated face, a symbol of order in the chaos, marked 12:30. The square in front of the tower was strangely clear, the polished cement gleaming under the orange-tinged moon, an oasis of suspicious calm.
The rhythmic sound of blades cutting the air began to be heard in the distance, growing in intensity until it vibrated in their chests and the asphalt.
"There it is!" Jill shouted, pointing to the sky.
A heavy rescue helicopter, with searchlights sweeping the square, began its descent, fanning the mist like a giant fan.
"We made it!" one of the civilians shouted, bursting into hysterical relief.
Carlos helped Mikhail move faster toward the center of the square.
"Get the flares ready! Make us visible!" Carlos ordered.
John, though cautious, joined the defensive perimeter as the wind from the blades whipped their coats. The pilot signaled approval, keeping the aircraft stable a meter above the ground.
"Listen up!" Carlos bellowed to be heard over the engine's roar. "Civilians first! Get in now!"
The group of survivors didn't need to be told twice. Fear was transforming into hysterical euphoria; salvation was within reach.
Jill helped Mikhail approach the side door. The Russian captain clung to the frame, coughing blood into his hand.
"Get in, Mikhail!" Jill shouted over the din. "You're the priority!"
"They won't be long..." Mikhail said in a weak voice, being hoisted inside by the copilot. "The chopper will be back!"
The pilot gave a thumbs-up and the helicopter began to gain altitude, stirring up dust and dead leaves. The civilians waved from the windows, some crying with relief, others praying. Carlos lowered his rifle for the first time in hours, letting out a sigh that emptied his lungs.
"We did it..." Carlos muttered, running a hand through his dirty hair. "Shit, we really did it."
Jill looked at John, a genuine smile forming on her lips. Even Ada seemed to have let her guard down, holstering her weapon with a fluid movement.
The helicopter ascended about twenty meters, ready to veer north and escape the nightmare.
That's when the world broke.
There was no sound of warning. Just a sharp, violent hiss that lasted a fraction of a second, followed by a deafening crash.
CRAAAASH!
A massive projectile—a block of masonry torn from the tower's own structure—impacted the helicopter's fuselage and tail rotor with the force of a meteor.
The sound of twisting metal was horrendous. The helicopter instantly lost control, spinning violently on its own axis like a broken toy. The civilians' screams were drowned out by the roar of the dying turbine as the aircraft plummeted toward the ground, slamming into the square's pavement in an explosion of fire and twisted metal less than fifty meters from them.
The shockwave from the impact knocked Jill to the ground and forced John to cover his face.
"NO!" Carlos shouted, his eyes wide, reflecting the flames of the wreckage.
A deathly silence fell over the square, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the sound of distant alarms. There were no survivors. There couldn't be.
Then, a guttural, wet, and terribly amplified sound echoed from above, chilling their blood.
Slowly, as if moved by an invisible thread of terror, the group turned their gaze toward the Clock Tower.
There, anchored to the vertical wall of the tower, about thirty meters up, was the cause. But it was no longer the trench soldier they had faced in the subway. Its trench coat was gone, shredded by the mutation. Its body had expanded, the flesh ripped open to reveal a mass of viscous tentacles and exposed muscle. It walked on four limbs, defying gravity, like a spider made of necrotic flesh and pure hatred.
Nemesis roared, a sound that did not belong to this world, and its tentacles thrashed in the air, dripping black blood onto the burning square.