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The walkie-talkie clicked into silence after Noah confirmed they had Sherry.
Leon hung the device back on his belt, and for the first time since the world ended at sunset, the knot in his chest loosened. Knowing that a child was safe—that an innocent life had been pulled from the brink—gave him a rare, grounding sense of purpose. It reminded him why he'd put on the badge in the first place.
He pulled two gems from his tactical vest, found in an ornate clock in the library. One was a deep, garnet red; the other a similar, blood-colored hue. They caught the pale flicker of the emergency lights, glinting like the eyes of some predatory animal.
"What the hell is going on in Irons' head?" Leon muttered, his voice echoing in the hollow hallway. "Most people use a keypad or a deadbolt. This guy turns a police station into an Egyptian tomb. Does he think he's a damn Pharaoh?"
Grumbling didn't find keys, though. He pulled out the map Marvin had given him. The constant skirmishes in the East Wing had drained him; his handgun was low, and his shotgun was down to the shell in the chamber. He needed a win.
His finger landed on a room in the first basement level: The Armory.
To get there, he had to cut back through the West Office, navigate the kennel area, and cross the underground parking lot. It was a long way to go for a reload, but he didn't have a choice.
He moved through the kennel, where the iron cages had been shredded like wet cardboard. The air was thick with a copper stench, but the mutant hounds that usually patrolled the area were nowhere to be seen. He didn't linger to ask why.
He pushed open the heavy iron door leading to the parking lot. The air was stagnant—a mix of gasoline, cold concrete, and engine oil.
The lot was a graveyard of police cruisers, their white-and-blue liveries obscured by dust and bloody handprints. Distorted shadows stretched across the floor, dancing in the weak light of a few flickering emergency lamps.
Leon moved with his shotgun raised, his boots scuffing the concrete. He was halfway across the lot when the sound stopped his heart.
Thump...
It was heavy. Rhythmic. The sound of metal-capped boots on concrete.
Thump...
Leon didn't need to look. The hair on his neck was already standing up. The T-103. The Tyrant. It hadn't stayed down. It had followed his scent into the dark.
Leon spun around, the shotgun leveled at the darkness behind a row of cruisers. A mountain-like silhouette emerged from the gloom, the pale light catching the top of its bald, grey head. Those milky, pupil-less eyes locked onto Leon with a mechanical, murderous intent.
It started toward him, its pace steady and unhurried.
Leon gritted his teeth, his finger tightening on the trigger. He had one shot. He had to make it count.
VROOOOM—!
The roar of an engine shattered the silence. Two blinding high-beams pierced the dark, washing over the Tyrant and Leon alike.
Before Leon could blink, a police transport van screamed into view. With a screech of tires, the driver floored it, aiming the heavy steel grill straight at the monster.
CRASH—!!!
The sound was deafening. The van slammed into the Tyrant with the force of a falling building. The monster's massive body was lifted off its feet, its boots plowing furrows into the concrete as the van pinned it squarely against a thick support pillar.
The front of the van crumpled like tin foil, black smoke billowing from the ruined radiator.
The driver's side door kicked open. A woman in a fire-engine red dress jumped down with the grace of a cat. Even in the chaos, Leon noticed she was breathtaking—tall, Asian, with a face that looked entirely too perfect for a war zone.
She didn't waste a second. She hurried toward Leon, giving him a sharp, dismissive shove.
"Don't get in the way!" her voice was cold, a whip-crack of authority. "Get back!"
Leon stumbled, but his instincts took over. He dived behind a tall Ford SUV, using the heavy frame for cover.
Greeeeeak—!
A sound of twisting metal came from the wreck. Leon peeked over the hood and felt his blood turn to ice. The Tyrant was still alive. It was using its gloved hands to grip the chassis of the van, the thick steel plates buckling like paper as it began to lift the entire vehicle off itself.
"No way," Leon whispered.
The woman in red didn't wait for it to finish. She raised a silver pistol and fired.
Bang!
The bullet didn't hit the monster. It hit the van's exposed fuel tank.
Gasoline began to pour out, pooling around the Tyrant's feet. In one fluid motion, the woman pulled a fragmentation grenade from her belt, yanked the pin, and tossed it into the oil.
"Get down, rookie!"
Leon ducked, covering his head.
BOOM—!!!!
The explosion was a physical blow. The gasoline ignited, turning the transport van into a massive orange fireball. The shockwave shattered the windows of the SUV Leon was hiding behind, showering him in glass.
When the ringing in his ears faded, Leon looked out. The van was a burning skeleton. The Tyrant had been blasted back into a crater in the pillar, its body wreathed in flames, motionless.
Leon stared at the woman in red. She was wearing a high-slit red Qipao—an elegant, silk dress that looked absurdly beautiful against the backdrop of burning metal and blood. She was a lethal contradiction.
"H-hello..." Leon stammered, his throat dry. "You are..."
The woman didn't answer. She reached into a tactical pouch and flicked open a leather wallet. A golden badge gleamed in the firelight.
FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION.
"FBI?" Leon's eyes widened. "That explains the... everything. How can I help?"
The woman tucked the ID away, her sharp eyes scanning Leon with a hint of grudging recognition. "I'm looking for a contact. A reporter named Ben Bertolucci. Intelligence says he's being held in the detention cells downstairs."
She glanced at the burning wreck of the Tyrant. "I need to ensure this thing stays dead. You're a cop—go find the reporter."
"Right. On it." Leon turned to go, then spun back. "Wait! I'm Leon. Leon S. Kennedy. What's your name?"
The woman was already walking toward the fire, the red silk of her dress fluttering in the heat. She didn't look back.
"Ada," she said, her voice melodic and cool. "Ada Wong."
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