Darkness came first.
Then pain.
A deep, suffocating pressure wrapped around Simmons' limbs, pulling him back into consciousness. His breath came out ragged, chest rising and falling unevenly as his eyes slowly opened.
Canvas ceiling.
Dim lights.
The smell of antiseptic… and blood.
"…Where—"
Metal clinked.
Simmons' eyes widened.
His arms were chained, thick reinforced cuffs locking his wrists together in front of him. His legs were restrained too, bolted directly into the steel frame beneath the cot.
He tried to move.
Nothing.
Panic flared—then rage.
"LET ME GO!"
The scream tore through the BSAA tent, echoing against fabric walls.
On the left side of the cot—
A boy sat quietly.
Nobita.
He was focused on his right arm, slowly wrapping fresh bandages around flesh that was still healing. His movements were careful, controlled, almost calm—but his face told a different story. Dark circles under his eyes. Jaw clenched. Silent anger simmering beneath the surface.
Simmons stared at him.
"…You."
Nobita didn't look up.
"Untie me!" Simmons snarled. "Do you know who I am?!"
Still nothing.
Simmons' breathing grew heavier. His muscles twitched instinctively.
Then—
He tried to mutate.
Pain exploded inside him.
His spine convulsed, veins bulging as biomass surged—
—and immediately collapsed.
Simmons screamed, body arching violently before slamming back onto the cot.
"What—WHAT DID YOU DO TO ME?!"
Simmons noticed that there was a device that inserts in his chest.
Then finally...
Nobita spoke.
Calm. Flat. Dangerous.
"You can't transform here."
Simmons glared at him. "You think chains can stop me?!"
Nobita lifted his gaze.
From his pocket, he pulled out a small spherical device—smooth, metallic, faintly glowing.
"Doraemon's gadget," Nobita said. "Mutation immobilizer."
Simmons' eyes widened in disbelief.
"…Impossible."
"It shuts down abnormal cellular acceleration," Nobita continued. "Your virus can't activate."
Simmons laughed weakly, blood staining the corner of his mouth.
"You think this changes anything?" he hissed. "The missile is still coming."
That made Nobita's fingers pause for just a second.
Then Doraemon's voice echoed from outside the tent.
"Nobita! We need you. Now!"
Nobita stood.
He looked down at Simmons one last time.
"You're not done yet," Nobita said. "But neither am I."
And he walked out.
The atmosphere inside the main BSAA bunker felt thick, like the air itself was resisting every breath.
Rows of massive monitors lined the walls, their screens flickering unevenly. Tactical maps pulsed in deep crimson, warning icons blinking like open wounds. Coordinates scrolled endlessly. Alarms were muted, but their presence could be felt—a silent scream beneath the hum of machines.
Soldiers stood in clusters, whispering urgently. Every word sounded dangerous, as if saying it too loud might make the situation worse.
At one end of the room, hackers sat hunched over their terminals, fingers flying across keyboards. Sweat dripped from their temples onto the desks. One of them wiped his face with a shaking hand and immediately went back to typing.
Leon stood near the center of the bunker, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His jaw was locked, eyes fixed on the largest screen. He hadn't moved in minutes.
Helena paced behind him, boots striking the floor in sharp, restless steps.
"This doesn't make sense," she muttered. "There's always a failsafe. Always."
Near the main table, Chris Redfield stood perfectly still.
Too still.
His fists were clenched so tightly his knuckles had turned white. The muscles in his arms twitched with barely contained fury. Anyone who knew him could tell—he was holding himself back from exploding.
At the rear of the room stood Doraemon and the others.
Shizuka leaned slightly against Doraemon, her shoulder wrapped in thick bandages stained faintly red. Her face was pale, but her eyes stayed on the screens, refusing to look away.
Gian stood beside her, arms folded, unusually quiet—his bravado completely gone.
Suneo chewed on his nails, eyes darting between the soldiers and the monitors.
Dekisuki stared intently at the data scrolling across the screens, lips pressed into a thin line, trying to calculate the impossible.
Then—
The doors slid open with a low hiss.
Nobita stepped inside.
The sound was small, but it cut through the room.
One by one, heads turned. Conversations died mid-sentence. Even the keyboards slowed.
All eyes locked onto him.
Nobita felt his chest tighten. He swallowed, forcing himself to walk forward despite the weight pressing down on him.
A BSAA hacker glanced up from his screen, face drained of color. His hands trembled as he pushed his chair back slightly.
"We…"
His voice cracked.
He cleared his throat and tried again.
"We can't stop it."
The words landed like a gunshot.
Silence crashed down on the bunker.
Leon uncrossed his arms and took a step forward. His voice was calm—but sharp.
"Explain. Slowly."
The hacker nodded quickly, fingers shaking as he tapped the keyboard. A new display filled the main monitor—missile trajectories, locked coordinates, encrypted systems.
"The launch protocol is completely isolated," he said. "It's not connected to any external network. No satellite link. No backdoor."
Helena leaned over his shoulder. "What about an override?"
The hacker shook his head.
"No override. No manual abort. Even the physical controls are locked once the countdown starts."
Chris slammed his fist into the table.
The impact echoed through the room.
"Then what the hell are we doing here?!" he roared. "Just standing around watching the world burn?!"
Several soldiers flinched.
Helena turned sharply toward the hacker. "How much time do we have?"
The hacker hesitated.
His silence stretched—five seconds, ten.
Everyone felt it.
"…One hour and fifty minutes."
The numbers appeared on the screen.
01:50:00
No one spoke.
Shizuka inhaled sharply. Suneo's nails dug into his skin. Gian looked away.
Leon closed his eyes for a brief second.
At that exact moment—
A faint blue glow flickered before Nobita's eyes.
A translucent interface materialized in the air only he could see.
[SYSTEM ALERT]
TIME REMAINING: 01:49:59
Nobita's breath caught in his throat.
The system knows.
Chris turned away suddenly, shoulders shaking with barely restrained rage.
"I'm done waiting," he growled. "Someone's lying. And I'm going to get answers."
"Chris—" Leon started.
Too late.
Chris stormed toward the exit, boots pounding against the floor. The doors slid open, swallowing him into the corridor beyond.
The bunker was left in silence once more.
The flap was ripped open violently.
Chris entered like a storm.
Simmons looked up just in time to see a massive fist crash into his face.
CRACK.
Blood sprayed.
"HOW DO YOU STOP THE MISSILE?!"
Another punch.
Another.
Leon shouted from the entrance. "CHRIS—!"
Helena grabbed his arm. "Stop!"
Doraemon gasped. "Chris-san!"
Nobita rushed forward. "Enough!"
Simmons coughed violently, blood dripping down his chin.
And then—
He laughed.
A weak, broken laugh.
"…Too late," Simmons whispered. "You've already lost."
Chris froze.
His chest heaved.
Slowly, he stepped back.
"…Damn it."
He turned and walked out, punching the metal support pole so hard it bent.
Outside, his roar echoed through the camp.
Outside the BSAA bunker, the night air felt heavy and cold, pressing down on everyone gathered there.
Floodlights cut through the darkness, casting long shadows across the concrete ground. In the distance, the bunker doors loomed like a sealed tomb behind them. Helicopter blades spun slowly nearby, but even their noise felt muted—like the world itself was holding its breath.
Leon stood near a transport truck, rubbing his temples. His face was pale under the harsh white lights.
"No override," he said quietly. "No access. No Simmons."
The words sounded final.
Nobita stood a few steps away, staring down at the concrete beneath his feet. The countdown echoed in his mind, each second heavier than the last. He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms.
For several long moments, no one spoke.
Wind passed through the open area, fluttering loose papers and sending dust skittering across the ground.
Then—
Shizuka spoke.
Her voice was soft, almost lost against the sound of engines and distant radios.
But it didn't tremble.
"If we can't stop the missile," she said slowly,
"then… can we cure the virus?"
Every head turned toward her.
Leon looked up, confused. "…What?"
Shizuka swallowed, steadying herself. Her bandaged shoulder ached, but she ignored it.
"Like an antivirus," she explained. "If the C-virus is neutralized before impact, then Simmons' control—his trigger—won't activate."
The group fell silent again.
Chris Redfield, standing near the bunker doors with his arms crossed, stiffened.
Helena's eyes widened.
"…Wait."
She immediately dropped to one knee, opening her bag on the concrete. Equipment spilled out as she dug through it urgently.
"A plane crash," Helena said, her voice quickening. "Earlier today. Sherry gave me something. A device. And a card."
Leon stepped closer. "Helena, what did Sherry say?"
"That we might still have a chance."
Helena stood and rushed toward a portable terminal set up beside a military vehicle. A soldier stepped aside as she inserted the data card.
The screen flickered.
A photo appeared under the floodlights.
JAKE MULLER.
A low murmur spread through the group.
Text scrolled beneath the image.
"Subject's blood contains antibodies capable of completely neutralizing the C-virus."
The reactions came instantly.
"You're serious?"
"That's real data?"
"A cure?"
Chris stepped forward, eyes locked onto the screen.
His jaw tightened.
"…Wesker's son," he muttered.
The name carried weight—anger, history, unresolved pain.
Leon exhaled slowly. "If that's true… then we don't just stop the virus."
"We stop Simmons," Helena said.
Suddenly
The lights went out.
Everything went dark.
Doraemon froze.
"…No."
He checked the device panel.
"The mutation immobilizer—!" Doraemon gasped. "It lost power!"
confusion erupted.
"Power's down!" a BSAA soldier shouted into his radio.
"Repeat—power's completely down!"
Boots scraped against concrete. Weapons were raised blindly into the dark.
"Hold your positions!" another voice barked. "No one fires unless you have a clear—"
A click.
One soldier flipped down his night-vision goggles.
The world shifted.
Darkness dissolved into a sickly green haze. Static crawled along the edges of his vision as the outlines of trucks, barricades, and bodies slowly sharpened.
"Night vision active," he whispered. "I don't see—"
Something moved.
Right in front of him.
Too close.
Simmons' face filled his vision.
Eyes calm.
Almost curious.
"What the—?!"
A hand shot forward and wrapped around his neck.
Not crushing.
Not yet.
The soldier gagged, feet lifting off the ground as Simmons leaned in close, studying him like a specimen.
"You should have kept the lights on," Simmons murmured.
CRACK.
The neck snapped cleanly.
Simmons let the body fall gently to the ground.
Ten meters away, another soldier turned at the sound.
"Did you hear that?"
"Who's down?! Answer me!"
Static answered.
The soldier swept his rifle slowly, breath loud in his ears.
"I've got movement—"
A shadow slid behind him.
A hand clamped over his mouth.
He struggled, boots scraping helplessly.
CRACK.
Simmons lowered the body and straightened his cuffs.
Elsewhere—
"Formation's broken!"
"Fall back to the trucks!"
"Where is he?!"
Simmons moved through them like a ghost.
A soldier spun around, firing blindly.
The shots went wide.
Simmons caught the barrel, twisted—
Bone snapped.
The soldier screamed—
Too long.
CRACK.
Silence.
Another guard backed away, shaking, night vision flickering.
"I—I see him," he whispered. "Command, I see—"
Simmons stepped into view.
Smiling.
The guard froze.
"You people never learn," Simmons said softly.
CRACK.
One by one, the shadows fell.
No rushing.
No panic on Simmons' face.
Only precision.
Only control.
At last, the darkness stood empty.
The lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then blazed back to life.
Floodlights revealed the aftermath.
BSAA soldiers lay scattered across the concrete—lifeless, broken, still clutching their weapons.
In the center of them stood Simmons.
Unchained.
Untouched.
Blood dripped slowly from his fingers, splashing onto the ground with quiet, deliberate taps.
He exhaled, almost bored.
"And now," Simmons said calmly,
"we continue."