Leon's return from the side office was different from his entrance. The frantic energy was gone, replaced by a hollow, leaden sluggishness. He moved as if the air itself had become viscous, his boots dragging against the marble.
When he reached Noah and Claire, he took a breath so deep it seemed he was trying to fill a void in his chest. His youthful face had aged five years in ten minutes.
"The situation... it's worse than we thought," Leon rasped. The casual warmth of their first meeting had evaporated, leaving only a cold, professional edge. "Chief Marvin told me that Director Irons—the son of a bitch—sealed all the regular exits from the inside right after the outbreak started. The main doors are locked down electronically, and the back is a wall of burning steel thanks to that tanker."
Claire's face went ghost-white. She gripped the grip of her Browning until her knuckles turned ivory. "Then we're caged? We're just waiting for those things to find a way in?"
"No," Leon said, his eyes shifting to the massive Goddess Statue. "There's one way out. Marvin said there's a secret passage beneath the statue. An old escape route from when the building was a museum."
Claire stared at the serene marble face of the goddess. "A secret tunnel? This is starting to feel like a bad spy flick."
Leon offered a jagged, mirthless smile. "Tell me about it. I'd give anything for this to be a movie." He turned to Claire, his tone softening. "Marvin also said the S.T.A.R.S. office is on the second floor of the West Wing. If Chris left anything behind, it'll be there. But to open the passage under the statue, we need three medallions: the Lion, the Unicorn, and the Maiden."
Noah stepped forward, his mind already mapping the tactical divide. "Objective clear. Medallions first, escape second. Claire needs the S.T.A.R.S. office." He looked at Leon, his gaze steady. "We split up. Claire and I take the West Wing. We'll secure the office and look for the medallions along the way. You take the East Wing. It's dark over there, Leon. Be careful."
"Understood," Leon said. He unclipped a heavy black walkie-talkie from his belt and handed it to Noah. "Keep this on channel one. The masonry in this place is thick, but it's better than shouting."
Then, Leon pulled a Beretta M9 from his holster—Marvin's gun—and pressed it into Noah's hands. "Marvin won't be needing this. It's a lot more effective than a piece of scrap metal."
Noah looked down at the sleek, cold steel of the Beretta, then back at his meter-long piece of rebar. A subtle, uncharacteristic awkwardness clouded his face. He knew the internal anatomy of a human body, and he knew how to break a man's ribs with a palm strike, but the mechanical soul of a firearm was a foreign language to him.
Leon didn't wait for a thank-you. He checked his own magazine, gave them a final nod, and vanished into the shadows of the East Wing.
The hall went silent. Noah held the Beretta with one hand, trying to mimic a movie-star stance, but his stiff arm and confused grip gave him away instantly.
Claire watched him for a second, a flicker of genuine amusement breaking through her grief. She saw her steady, unflappable boyfriend looking at a handgun like it was a complex surgical tool he hadn't been trained for.
"Don't tell me," she teased, her voice light. "The Great Doctor doesn't know his way around a 9mm?"
Noah scratched his head, his face flushing. "I've spent my life learning to put people back together, Claire. Or taking them apart with my hands. This... this is different."
Claire laughed—a bright, bell-like sound that briefly chased the shadows from the room. She stepped behind him, taking the Beretta. "Watch and learn, rookie."
She pressed her chest against his back, her warm breath smelling of lemon soda as she guided his hands. "Safety is here. Up to lock, down to fire. Never touch the trigger unless you're ready to kill something. That's Rule One."
She adjusted his stance, her hands firm on his arms. "Feet apart. Lean into it. Support the base with your left, grip with your right. Aiming is simple: Three Points in a Line. Front sight, rear notch, target. Don't squint. Keep both eyes open."
She stepped back, winking at him. "Theoretical's over. Let's go see if you can pass the practical."
Noah adjusted his grip, the weight of the gun feeling a bit more natural. "Yes, Teacher Claire."
The West Wing was a corridor of nightmares.
The walls were plastered with torn posters and dark, viscous smears. The carpet was a sticky mess that sucked at their boots with every step. Several officers lay in the hallway, their bodies torn open in a way that suggested a frenzy.
Ahead, three shuffling figures turned. They were still wearing their R.P.D. uniforms, their faces half-eaten masks of grey meat.
"Practical starts now," Claire whispered, her Samurai Edge already up. "Take the lead, Noah."
Noah felt the sweat slicking his palms. He raised the Beretta, trying to find the "Three Points" through the haze of his own thumping heart. He aimed for the center of the lead zombie's forehead.
Bang!
The recoil was a physical shock, snapping the muzzle upward. The bullet went wide, chipping the plaster a foot above the monster's head.
"Steady!" Claire's voice was a cool breeze in his ear. "Brace your shoulder. Trust your hands."
Noah bit his lip, the sharp pain clearing his head. He lowered the sights, exhaled halfway, and squeezed.
Bang!
The zombie's head snapped back as the 9mm round tore through its eye socket. It collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.
"Perfect," Claire said, already firing a suppressive shot into the leg of another. "Again!"
By the time they reached the stairs to the second floor, Noah was finding the rhythm. The tension in his shoulders had turned into a controlled, lethal focus. They cleared the landing and pushed through the heavy doors marked S.T.A.R.S.
The office was a time capsule. Half-drunk coffee cups sat on desks next to unfinished reports and candy wrappers. In the corner, a pile of unopened boxes sat waiting for people who would never return.
Claire's eyes locked onto a desk in the back. A dark brown bomber jacket hung on a chair, the words Made in Heaven embroidered on the back in white silk.
"Chris," she whispered.
She ran to the desk, her fingers tracing the leather of the jacket. It still felt like it held the faint warmth of her brother. Buried under a stack of folders, she found a black hardcover notebook.
Chris's Diary.
Noah stood guard at the door as Claire read. Her face went through a kaleidoscope of emotions—shock, anger, and finally, a devastating grief. The diary laid it all bare: the Mansion Incident, the T-Virus, and the Umbrella Corporation's shadow over the city.
"...Jill, Barry, and I... we're going to Europe. To the source. I didn't tell Claire. She's my only family. I can't let her into this."
The diary ended there.
Claire's knees gave out. She slumped against the desk, the tears falling thick and fast onto the yellowed pages. "You idiot," she sobbed. "You think this is protecting me? I'm already in it, Chris."
Noah was there in a second, pulling her into a firm, silent embrace. He let her cry into his shoulder, her tears soaking through his shirt. He looked at the jacket—at the "Made in Heaven" patch—and felt a cold, hard resolve settle in his own chest.
"When we get out of here," Noah whispered, his voice vibrating with a sudden, dark solemnity. "We're going to Europe. I'm going with you, Claire. We'll find him together."
Claire looked up at him, her eyes red but fierce. She nodded, gripping his hand so hard it hurt.
"Together," she promised.