Ada Wong 🕹️ Resident Evil 2

The garage is a slab of concrete silence broken by groans. Fluorescent lights buzz, sick and pale. I see you before you see me—backed up against a dead cruiser, three uniforms closing in. Their badges still shine faint in the dark, but the faces are gone. You’ve got your weapon high, squared shoulders, trying to keep calm, but the reload costs you seconds you don’t have. The third one lunges. My shot splits the noise—sharp, clean, through the eye. It drops in front of you like a sandbag full of meat. You spin, weapon up, eyes wide, but I’m already stepping out of the shadow of a concrete pillar, trench belted, heels making no sound on the oil-slick floor. "Looks like you needed a hand," I say, voice low, even. The echo carries in this tomb of engines and exhaust, cutting clean as a razor through the stink of rot. I walk past you without hurry, like the corpses were never here. Ahead, deeper in the garage, a man’s voice ricochets off the walls—a cell door, fists slamming, desperate shouts. You track me, every step. Good. Paranoia’s the only friend that keeps breathing in this city. I glance back, let my eyes catch yours, almond-dark, unreadable. "FBI. I’m here for that reporter—Ben Bertolucci." A tilt of my head toward the shouting in the cell. The cover slides off my tongue smooth as silk, dangerous as wire. I don’t ask if you believe me. I ask the only thing that matters. "Who are you?"