Ryan pressed himself against the stone pillar, breathing in shallow sips.
The dim hall was a tomb. Nothing moved except the chandelier overhead, swaying with a faint creak. Mildew and the sweet edge of rot hung in the air, catching in his throat with every inhale.
His only advantage was the ability that had surfaced after that first ding in his skull: X-ray vision. Seeing through walls. Sensing what lurked on the other side.
The blurry humanoid outline was still shuffling around in the corridor, drifting away from him. He tracked the shadow, running mental calculations on distance and direction. The mansion's layout was burned into his memory. He'd cleared this game eighty, maybe a hundred times. If that zombie wandered toward the dining hall, he could hug the wall, slip to the staircase, and make it to the second floor.
One problem at a time.
He held his breath and inched forward, each footfall placed with surgical care.
Silent. Nearly perfect.
Then his sole ground against a pebble.
Tak.
Tiny. But in the dead silence of that hall, it rang like a gunshot.
Ryan froze.
The outline snapped rigid. Then it whipped toward him and charged.
"Shit."
He tried to bolt, but the pillar boxed him in. The instant he sidestepped, an ice-cold hand clamped onto his shoulder like a vise.
A reeking mouth lunged for him.
Pain detonated through his shoulder. Not dull, not distant. Real. A rusty-pliers kind of agony, teeth grinding into muscle, twisting.
His whole body seized. One thought left: I'm done.
He thrashed, shoved, clawed at the thing. Useless. The zombie's strength was inhuman, immovable. The pain in his shoulder ratcheted higher and higher. Ryan clenched his teeth and braced for the worst.
Then he noticed something.
Seconds passed. The tearing he'd braced for never came. His shoulder screamed with pain, but it was... intact?
He forced his eyes down.
Shirt undamaged. Not a mark on his skin. Not a scratch. Not even a bruise forming.
The zombie kept gnawing, jaw cranked wide, going at it with everything it had. But it might as well have been chewing on a steel plate. The teeth couldn't break through.
Ryan's brain stalled.
The pain was real. The damage wasn't.
Two chimes. He remembered now. Two dings had rung through his head.
The first had been X-ray vision. Sensing enemies through walls.
The second was this. HP lock.
He could feel injury. He just couldn't receive it.
His mind was still a wreck, trying to process this, when the mouth on his shoulder twisted again. White-hot pain lanced through him and he nearly screamed.
"Shit, shit, shit, that hurts!"
He shoved on instinct. No good. The zombie clung to him like it had fused there, face buried in his shoulder with the focus of a dog with a bone.
Two more shoves. Nothing.
Too strong.
He tried to get his legs under him, managed to push halfway up before the weight slammed him back down. The back of his skull cracked against the tile floor. Stars burst across his vision.
Couldn't push it off. Couldn't outrun it. Couldn't fight it.
Ryan lay on his back, chest heaving, staring up at the rotting face inches from his own.
The zombie paused. Its cloudy eyes rolled toward him, almost quizzical. Then it went right back to gnawing.
Ryan stared at it.
He stopped struggling.
Not because he'd made peace with the situation. Because he was spent. Those few seconds of thrashing had drained whatever he had left. He'd been dead on his feet before getting pulled into this world, hadn't caught a single breath before a zombie tackled him and started chewing on him like a piece of jerky.
His shoulder throbbed. Probably bruised to hell under the skin.
But he had nothing left to give.
He let his head drop to the floor and stared up at the stained, peeling ceiling, chest rising and falling hard.
Fine. Chew away, pal. You can't kill me anyway.
Let me catch my breath first, then we'll sort this out.
The scene was absurd. One zombie crouched on top of a guy, gnawing with grim determination. One guy flat on his back beneath it, panting and staring at the ceiling. The kind of tableau bizarre enough to make the whole mansion cringe.
Then the zombie shifted lower.
No. No, not there.
NOT THERE!
Ryan erupted. Every last scrap of strength he had left detonated at once, and his foot connected with the zombie's chest. The thing launched backward, tumbling three meters across the tile.
Almost the same instant, the front doors of the hall slammed open.
Figures poured through in tight formation, movements sharp and practiced. Weapons snapped up in unison, muzzles sweeping the room.
The man in front wore black tactical gear, his face hard-cut and unreadable, eyes razor-sharp.
Behind him, a man and a woman, both armed to the teeth.
Ryan turned his head and met their stares.
The air went still for one long second.
He managed a weak grin and raised a hand from the floor.
"Hey. So... any chance you'd believe me if I said I'm innocent?"
He was flat on his back. Three feet away, the zombie he'd punted lay in a crumpled heap.
The squad in the doorway kept their guns raised, scanning from him to the zombie and back, clearly unsure which one to aim at.
The leader stood at the front. Black tactical gear, dark sunglasses, a face carved from stone and a presence that radiated controlled authority. Captain of S.T.A.R.S. Alpha Team: Albert Wesker.
Flanking him, Jill and Barry held position, eyes sharp and wary. Though beneath the professional vigilance, the corners of their mouths twitched with something they were fighting hard to suppress.
S.T.A.R.S. had arrived.