The streets of Raccoon City were a mausoleum of steel and blood, the buildings collapsing under the weight of chaos. Cassian, Jill Valentine, Terri Morales, and Peyton Wells moved cautiously, navigating through debris and pools of dried blood. Peyton limped more than usual, his face pale, a dirty rag wrapped around his forearm where a zombie had bitten him the night before during an ambush. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his hands trembled—clear signs that the T-virus infection was progressing. The elementary school, where Charles Ashford claimed his daughter Angela was located, was their destination, but every step was a gamble against death.
A narrow alley stopped them, a horde of zombies blocking the way, their staggering bodies growling with blind hunger. Cassian closed his eyes for a moment, activating his blood at will, his eyes glowing golden for a second. A surge of strength and reflexes flooded his muscles, and he unsheathed his dagger, the metal gleaming under the gray light.
"Fall back," he said, his voice firm. Jill nodded, raising her gun, while Terri crouched behind an overturned car.
Cassian charged into the center of the horde, his martial style a deadly whirlwind. The first zombie fell with a slash that severed its head, the body collapsing like a broken sack. Another reached him, but he spun, delivering a spinning kick that smashed its skull against a dumpster, the bone cracking. A third tried to bite him, but Cassian sidestepped, driving the dagger into its neck, the infected falling without a groan. His movements were a brutal dance, each strike precise, his inhuman speed guided by years of training and the power of his blood. In seconds, the alley fell silent, bodies scattered, and Cassian cleaned the blade, his breathing barely altered.
"That was… something," Peyton gasped, leaning against a wall, his hand trembling as he touched the soaked bandage.
"Let's move," Cassian said, scanning the path ahead.
Jill approached, wiping sweat from her forehead. "The market is ahead," she said, checking a crumpled map. "It leads us straight to the school, but it's risky. Any other options?"
"The tunnel on 6th Street," Cassian suggested, pointing to a detour. "Narrower, less exposure."
"But it traps us if they come in groups," Jill countered, thoughtful. "The market gives us space to maneuver."
"Space for ambushes," Cassian insisted firmly. "The tunnel is safer if we're quick."
"I'm not up for races," Peyton said, gesturing to his wounded arm. "I vote for the market. I can cover from the rear."
"The market, then," Jill decided after a pause. "But you take point, Cassian. You seem capable of handling it."
"Done," he nodded, adjusting the dagger.
The conversation stretched as they advanced, Jill and Cassian discussing tactics with growing respect. "If we enter through the east wing," Jill said, "we need to split up. Peyton and I will take the main hallway. You and Terri, check the classrooms."
"I'm no good at this," Terri murmured, her voice trembling. She fidgeted with the camera hanging from her neck, a nervous tic, her eyes darting between shadows. "All of this… terrifies me. I don't know how you keep going."
"One day at a time," Cassian said, looking at her. "Stay close. I've got your back."
"Thanks," she replied, rubbing her arms. "I just want this to end."
"We all do," Peyton said with a bitter laugh. "But this bite…" He raised his arm, the rag revealing blackened stains. "It's killing me."
"Hang on," Jill said, tense. "I'm not leaving you behind."
"I hope so," he muttered, his voice breaking. "If I turn, I don't want to hurt anyone."
In the market, a noise alerted them. Two figures emerged from a shattered store: Carlos Olivera and Nicholai Ginovaef, alias Anderson, wearing Umbrella uniforms but carrying the demeanor of deserters. Carlos, dark-skinned and rugged, carried a rifle, his eyes weary but alert. Nicholai, colder, with scars marking his face, limped, a bloody rag tied to his thigh where a zombie had bitten him hours earlier. His skin was pale, his eyes glassy, the infection clearly advancing.
"Friends or enemies?" Jill asked, aiming at them.
"Friends, if you don't shoot," Carlos replied, raising his hands. "UBCS. Umbrella left us for dead."
"Carlos Olivera," he introduced himself. "This is Nicholai Anderson. We want to get out alive."
"Jill Valentine, S.T.A.R.S.," she said, lowering her weapon slightly. "Why aren't you with your bosses?"
"Because they betrayed us," Nicholai growled, his Russian accent sharp. "Look at this." He showed his thigh, the cloth sticky with black blood. "We're not dying for them."
Cassian observed them, noticing the tremor in Nicholai, the feverish sweat on Peyton. "You're infected," he said bluntly. "You don't have much time."
"What?" Terri exclaimed, stepping back, her hands gripping her camera tightly.
"It's no secret," Peyton admitted, pale. "But I can still fight."
"So can I," Nicholai added, though his voice was strained. "I'm not giving up."
Cassian frowned, his mind racing. He had trained his blood for more than fighting; in the past two months, he had learned to use it in new ways. "I can help you," he said, surprising them. He took out his dagger and cut his palm, letting a few drops of bright blood fall. He approached Peyton, pressing his hand against the bloody bandage on the officer's arm. Cassian's blood touched the bite, and a fleeting glow ran through the wound, sealing it without a mark. Peyton gasped, color returning to his face, the tremors fading.
"Shit," Peyton muttered, touching his arm. "How did you do that?"
Cassian didn't answer, turning to Nicholai. He repeated the gesture, cutting himself again, the drops falling onto the Russian's thigh. The infected wound hissed upon contact, healing in seconds, the skin intact. Nicholai looked at him, bewildered but grateful.
"Don't ask," Cassian said, cleaning the dagger. "Let's go, Old Spice. To the school."
"I won't forget that," Carlos said, impressed, following him.
They arrived at the school, a dark building with shattered windows. Inside, the air was thick, the silence broken by a deep growl. Before they could advance, zombie Dobermans burst from a hallway, their deformed bodies leaping with sharp claws.
Cassian activated his blood, his golden eyes flashing, and launched into the attack. The first dog lunged at him, but he rolled, slicing its neck cleanly, black blood splattering. Another jumped toward Terri, but Cassian intercepted it, smashing its skull with a punch, the bones crunching. A third scratched him, but he spun, stabbing it precisely in the spine, the body collapsing. His martial style was devastating, each strike a sentence, his blood empowering him beyond human limits.
"Thanks!" Terri gasped, retreating, her hands trembling.
Jill shot another dog, covering their flank. She and Cassian fought back-to-back, their movements synchronized. When the last Doberman fell, silence enveloped them, and Jill, still catching her breath, looked at him. On impulse, she leaned in and kissed him, her lips fierce against his, but pulled away instantly, wiping her mouth. "Damn adrenaline," she muttered. "Let's move."
Cassian said nothing, only nodded, though his eyes followed her for a second.
A figure emerged from a classroom, moving with feline agility: a woman in blood-stained clothes, her eyes sharp as knives. No one recognized her, and before anyone could speak, her instincts flared. Something about Cassian—his presence, his calm—made her tense. "You're not human," she said, attacking without warning, launching a high kick.
Cassian activated his blood, his golden eyes glowing, and blocked with his forearm, countering with a punch she narrowly dodged. They fought in a blur, he stopping her hooks, she evading his dagger slashes. Cassian attempted a sweep, but she jumped, countering with a knee strike that he blocked. They broke even, retreating, panting, the tension electric.
"What are you?" she demanded, intrigued, her voice low.
"Someone who isn't with Umbrella," he replied, wiping a cut on his lip.
"That doesn't explain much," she said, but her eyes showed respect.
"Stop," Jill interrupted, aiming at her. "We don't know who you are, but he's with us. And you?"
"My name is Alice," she said, relaxing slightly. "I just got out of the hospital. Umbrella kept me… busy."
A shout cut through the air. From the courtyard, a man ran: LJ, a civilian in loose clothes and a stolen gun, sweaty. "Shit, I found you!" he gasped. "I was at the theater, but Nemesis slaughtered everyone. I saw kids here, thought they were alive."
"Angela," Terri said, rubbing her arms. "Ashford said she's in the east wing."
"Then let's move," Cassian said, taking the lead. "This isn't over."
"No kidding," Carlos said, checking his rifle. "If there's a kid, we get her out."
"Or die trying," Nicholai grunted, dryly.
The conversation continued in the dark hallways, the tension palpable. "If Ashford isn't lying," Jill said, "Angela is our way out. But Umbrella doesn't leave loose ends."
"That's why we fight," Cassian said. "If there's a chance, we take it."
"Speaking of chances," Peyton said, steadier after being healed, "I feel brand new. But this city… I don't know if we'll make it out whole."
"We will," Jill said firmly. "I'm not letting Umbrella win."
"I just want one night without fear," Terri murmured, her voice low. "This… is too much."
"It is," Alice said, walking behind her. "But you're still here. That counts."
"Speak for yourself," LJ said, laughing nervously. "I'm scared shitless, but I'm not giving up."
The east wing awaited them, a dark corridor where every shadow promised blood. Cassian tightened his grip on the dagger, his enigmatic figure leading the way, as the group prepared to find Angela or face whatever came next.