Location: DSO Headquarters, Field Operations Command, Washington D.C.
Date: July 28, 2017
Time: 09:00 Hours
Four years.
For most people, four years is enough time to grieve, heal, and move on. For Ingrid Hunnigan, it was just a countdown.
It had been 1,461 days since the official report, KIA: Mission FROZEN CORE, had reached her terminal. 1,461 days of quiet, stubborn defiance against a closure she felt deeply was a lie.
Her office in the Division of Security Operations was a picture of ordered efficiency. Three monitors displayed global threat assessments: bioterror chatter in Eastern Europe, BSAA logistics in Louisiana, and satellite sweeps of the Pacific. But in the corner of her digital workspace, hidden behind layers of encryption that would stump a typical NSA analyst, was a private chaos.
A slim, unauthorized digital file labeled RICHARD, ALEN.
It held snippets—a stolen photo from a Cambridge alumni database, a redacted memo about his adoption, and a trace of a man who did not officially exist.
This morning, she had gone further than ever. Using a "skeleton key" algorithm she built during sleepless nights—code whispered about by retired MI6 agents over Scotch—she had breached the outermost layer of a Tier-0 server deeply buried in the CIA's Special Activities Center.
For ten glorious, terrifying minutes, she had navigated the digital edge of the world's most forbidden archive.
The target file appeared on her secondary, shielded monitor:
//GRAYWEATHER/ASSETS/PHANTOM/MASTER.DOSSIER
Her fingers flew across the keyboard. But as she started the decryption sequence, the screen erupted into a flurry of aggressive, shifting hex code. A single, pulsating command appeared in the center, glaring red:
ACCESS DENIED
UNAUTHORIZED ENTITY DETECTED
TRACE COUNTERMEASURES: ACTIVE
"Damn it," she whispered.
She cut the connection immediately, yanking the physical drive from the port before the tracer could infiltrate the DSO mainframe. The screen went black, showing her face—pale, framed by her glasses, and marked with furious disappointment.
"That look usually means a telecom satellite just died. Or you're trying to find someone who doesn't want to be found."
The voice, dry and familiar, came from her doorway.
Hunnigan didn't flinch, but her heart raced. She quickly switched her main screen to a dull logistics report on Blue Umbrella supply lines before turning in her chair.
Leon S. Kennedy leaned against the frame. Time and trauma had changed him. New lines formed around his ice-blue eyes, and tension lingered in his jaw, but his keen perception was as strong as ever. He wore a practical black leather jacket, his posture relaxed but alert.
"Leon," she said, adjusting her headset. "I didn't hear you come in. When did you land?"
"Just now. I met with Sherry. She's worried about you," he said, stepping inside and quietly closing the door. His gaze remained on her face. "She said you've been… distant. Buried in work that isn't ours."
He approached her, glancing at the secondary monitor still cooling down from the unauthorized access.
"That wasn't a DSO server schematic, Ingrid. That was a deep-dive algorithm. Who are you looking for? And more importantly, why?"
The professional barrier she maintained held for a moment before crumbling under the weight of his concern and her exhaustion.
"Someone the world thinks is dead," she said softly. "Someone I know isn't."
Leon's brow furrowed. He pulled up a chair and sat opposite her. "Who?"
"Alen Richard."
The name hung in the air, heavier than the recycled air of the office. Leon's expression shifted from curiosity to grim recognition.
"The Siberia incident," Leon said, nodding slowly. "Frozen Core. I heard the rumors. It was Simmons's pet project gone wrong. Carla Radames, the C-Virus…the whole team was lost. He fell from a train into a glacial ravine. It was a tragedy, Hunnigan, but it was also four years ago."
"You don't understand, Leon," she insisted, lowering her voice. "He wasn't just another field agent. He wasn't DSO. He wasn't BSAA."
She paused, then made a decision. With a few keystrokes, she brought the fragmented file back up on the secondary screen. It was risky, but if anyone could grasp the weight of secrets, it was Leon.
"He was part of PROJECT: GRAYWEATHER."
A flicker of genuine confusion crossed Leon's face. "Grayweather? That's an old ghost story. A boogeyman tale spook handlers tell new recruits. 'The program that doesn't exist.'"
"It's real," Hunnigan said. She pointed to the screen.
**EYES ONLY – TOP SECRET/UMBRA**
**PROJECT: GRAYWEATHER – ASSET ASSESSMENT**
**DESIGNATION: PHANTOM**
**SUBJECT: RICHARD, ALEN**
[PHOTOGRAPH: A young man with sharp features, blonde hair, and piercing blue eyes]
**STATUS:** TIER-0 OPERATIVE // EXISTENCE DENIED
**PROGRAM ORIGIN:** Joint CIA/MI6 Initiative. Established post-Raccoon City.
**PRIMARY FUNCTION:** Asymmetrical Bio-Warfare & Deniable Operations.
**TRAINING FACILITY:** "The Nursery," Scottish Highlands.
**NOTE:** Asset demonstrates unusual physiological metrics.
**Survival probability in FROZEN CORE scenario recalculated to 34.7% (per internal Annex VII audit).**
Leon stared at the screen. The clinical language was chilling, but the photo...
"My God," Leon breathed, leaning in. "He looks like..."
"I know," Hunnigan quietly interrupted. "He looks like Albert Wesker."
Leon leaned back, rubbing his chin. "That's not a coincidence."
"No," Hunnigan said. "But look at the eyes. They aren't reptilian. They're human. And look at the status line, Leon. Existence Denied. That's not just classified. That's erased. That's a Treadstone level wipe."
"You hacked into a Tier-0 server for this?" Leon's voice was a mix of awe and alarm. "Do you have any idea what they'd do to you? The President doesn't even have this clearance."
"I had ten minutes. I failed on the master file," she admitted, frustration creeping back. "But I've gathered enough. PROJECT: GRAYWEATHER was the response to Raccoon City they never revealed. While we were forming the BSAA to combat bioterror openly, they were creating something else in the shadows."
She pulled up a map of the Scottish Highlands, circling a remote mountain range.
"A black ops training ground in Scotland designed to break ninety-five percent of its recruits. Live B.O.W.s for training targets. Psychological conditioning. Alen wasn't just a survivor, Leon. He was their work of art. Their 'Phantom.' I was his handler on one operation in Dveri, before Frozen Core. I monitored his vitals while he battled a Tyrant-class weapon."
Her voice trembled slightly.
"His heart rate spiked... and then it steadied. He sustained injuries that should have killed a tank, and he kept going. He told me it was 'handled.' I never believed the official story that a fall from a train killed him."
Leon sank deeper into the chair, the weight of her words settling on him. He understood what it felt like to be a pawn in a larger game. He looked at Hunnigan, seeing not just the analyst, but the woman behind the headset.
"A deniable soldier," Leon reflected. "A ghost fighting a war behind our war." He looked at her intently. "So, what's your endgame, Hunnigan? You prove he's alive. Then what? You can't just issue an APB on a CIA Tier-0 asset. If he is alive, he's staying hidden for a reason."
"I don't know," she confessed, her shoulders drooping. "Maybe I just need to know for myself. To confirm that someone like him... someone who cared more about the mission than his own life... didn't just get thrown away."
Leon studied her for a long moment. A soft, understanding look crossed his face.
"You know," he gently said. "When you first said his name, I wondered why you'd risk treason for a ghost. It's more than just an analyst's hunch, isn't it?"
A faint, unintentional blush colored Hunnigan's cheeks. She adjusted her glasses, looking away.
"It's not like that. He was... different. Genuine. In an agency filled with ambition and lies, Alen was a blunt instrument aimed only at the true monsters. Men like that don't last, Leon. They're too good for the game."
"You're right about that," Leon said, standing up with a creak from his leather jacket. "Corrupted systems despise incorruptible people. And if he's out there... if he really is a Grayweather asset... he's dangerous."
Leon approached the door, pausing with his hand on the knob.
"I won't tell a soul, Hunnigan. Not even Sherry. But be cautious. You're not just digging up a ghost. You're digging in a graveyard built by the people who own the shovel. If Alen is alive, he's likely halfway across the world by now, trying to find peace."
He opened the door. "Don't let the ghosts haunt you too much, Ingrid. We still have a world to save."
After he left, the room felt emptier. Quieter.
Ingrid Hunnigan turned back to her screens. The official DSO feed chirped with routine updates. On the other, the redacted dossier of Alen Richard still glowed in the dim light.
TRAINING FACILITY: "The Nursery," Scottish Highlands.
She traced the words on the screen.
"Scotland," she whispered.
She didn't close the file. Instead, she minimized it, placing the ghost in a corner of her digital space—a silent promise, a private vigil.
Somewhere, in the vast, hidden areas of the world, a Phantom was breathing. And she knew exactly where he was going.