The clicks of the electromagnetic locks were still echoing through the vaulted ceiling when the world outside screamed.
BOOM—!!!
It was a massive, concussive roar, muffled by the station's thick stone walls but terrifyingly powerful—far heavier than the tanker explosion. The grand hall buckled. A visible tremor surged through the marble floor, traveling up Noah's legs and into his teeth. Dust, accumulated from decades of quiet bureaucracy, sifted down from the rafters like a fine, grey rain.
The heavy oak doors rattled in their frames. Above them, the massive stained-glass window groaned under the shockwave, the lead soldering whining as it threatened to shatter and rain down shards of colored glass.
Claire dropped into a low crouch, her Samurai Edge snapping up toward the main entrance. Her heart was a drum in her chest. "What was that? A bomb? Noah, we have to check—"
She started to bolt toward the doors, but Noah's hand clamped onto her shoulder.
"Don't," he said. His voice was a low, resonant anchor. His palm was steady, grounding her instantly. "It's too dangerous to go back out there blind. We don't know what caused that, and rushing into a secondary blast or a fresh mob of those things is suicide."
He scanned the shadows of the upper gallery, listening. "Leon could be here any second. We wait. We conserve our strength. We do not gamble with the unknown."
Claire looked into his eyes—cool, calculating, and unshakable. She took a slow breath and lowered her weapon. "Right. Strategy first. I'm with you."
They retreated to the center of the hall, backing up against the cold, solid base of the Goddess Statue. It gave them a 360-degree view of the entrances. Noah pulled the heavy tactical pack from his shoulders, unzipping a side pocket. He handed Claire a bottle of water and a packet of compressed biscuits.
"Eat," he commanded gently. "Your blood sugar is dipping. You can't shoot straight if you're shaking."
Claire took the biscuit, wincing as she crunched into the rock-hard surface. In the oppressive silence of the hall, the sound of their chewing felt unnervingly loud.
Minutes stretched into an hour. The hall felt like a tomb waiting for its residents.
Bang! Bang-bang!
The gunshots were crisp and close, echoing from just outside the main gates. Noah and Claire were on their feet in an instant, biscuits forgotten.
Then came the impacts.
Thud. Thud-thud-thud.
Something was slamming into the oak doors with primitive, mindless force. The wood groaned. The brass handles rattled.
Noah and Claire stood back-to-back, weapons leveled, when a voice—strained, frantic, and wonderfully familiar—bellowed from the other side.
"Dammit! Why is the door locked! Open up!"
Leon.
A look of sudden, sheepish realization crossed Noah's face. He'd done such a good job securing their perimeter that he'd locked out their only ally. He dashed to the door, gripping the heavy brass bolt and hauling it up with a metallic clack.
The door flew open immediately. Leon stumbled inside, drenched in sweat, his chest heaving as if his lungs were on fire. He didn't even look at them; he spun around, slammed the door shut, and threw the bolt back home with a desperate strength.
Only then did he slide down the wood, collapsing onto the floor.
Outside, the things that had been chasing him began to hammer on the oak. Thud. Thud. Thud. Their guttural, wet growls vibrated through the wood, but the high-quality oak held. After a minute of futile pounding, the sounds faded into the distance.
Noah leaned against the door next to Leon, their breathing syncing up in the silence.
Suddenly, Leon started to chuckle—a dry, jagged sound of pure relief. Noah joined him, the tension breaking in a rare moment of dark humor.
"Seriously, man," Leon panted, wiping grime from his forehead. "That was a hell of a prank. Locking the rookie out of the station?"
Noah offered a hand, pulling him up. "I forgot I was dealing with a professional. Next time I'll leave a key under the mat."
"Haha, fair enough." Leon clapped him on the shoulder. "In this hellhole, I'd have done the same."
"Come on," Claire called from the statue, waving them over. "Eat something while you can."
The three sat together at the base of the goddess. Leon inhaled the biscuits and water Noah offered like a man who hadn't eaten in a week. Once the color returned to his face, the conversation turned to the explosion.
"What happened out there, Leon?" Claire asked. "The whole building nearly came down."
Leon's expression darkened. He stared into his water bottle. "A helicopter... crashed. It was a rescue attempt. I was on a nearby roof—I saw a cop on the station's heliport signaling for a pickup. A chopper moved in to grab him."
He shook his head, his voice dropping to a whisper. "The guy got tackled by a zombie right as the bird hovered. He went down, his finger caught the trigger of his submachine gun... he shredded the cockpit. The pilot went down with the ship."
"Oh my god," Claire whispered, her hand over her mouth.
"There was something else," Leon added, his brow furrowed. "Right after the crash, another chopper flew over. A massive, black transport bird. No markings. It was carrying a heavy metal frame on cables."
He looked at Noah. "It dropped a container into the rear courtyard of the station. I thought it was supplies—food or meds. But it looked... industrial. It had a serial number stencilled on the side in white: T-103."
Noah felt a sudden, icy void open in his stomach.
T-103.
He knew that designation. It wasn't supplies. It wasn't help. It was a Tyrant—the Umbrella Corporation's ultimate answer to "loose ends." A bio-engineered goliath designed to hunt down survivors and erase evidence with cold, relentless efficiency.
But how could he explain that? Hey, I've got a hunch that a nine-foot-tall invincible mutant in a trench coat just landed in the backyard. They'd think he was losing his mind.
"A black transport?" Noah asked, keeping his voice carefully neutral. "No government seals? No Red Cross?"
"Nothing," Leon said. "Pitch black. Like a ghost."
Noah rubbed his jaw, his mind racing through the map of the station. If a Tyrant was on the loose, their window for escape had just shrunk to almost zero. He needed to get them moving, but Leon had one more priority.
"Wait," Leon said, his eyes lighting up as he stood. "You said you met the Lieutenant? Marvin Branagh? He's my supervisor—I was supposed to report to him this morning!"
Claire looked up at him, her eyes filled with a painful sympathy. "Leon... he's in the side office. But he's... he's in bad shape."
The joy vanished from Leon's face. He didn't wait for another word. He bolted toward the office at the far end of the hall, his boots echoing like hammer strikes against the marble.