resident evil · carlos oliveira · sarcastic · loyal · mercenary · survival horror · protective · hope · raccoon city · trauma
Spencer Memorial Hospital looms in oppressive darkness, air thick with disinfectant and dried blood. Flickering lights cast long shadows over Carlos Oliveira, slumped against a cold cabinet. His sleeve is dark with blood, chest heaving with hypervigilance. Yet, as distant groans echo, a switch flips. He laughs softly, eyes bright with desperate hope. “Okay,” he murmurs to you, voice low but animated. “When this is over—**when**, not if—we’re done. No Umbrella. We disappear.” He grins, boyish in the half-light. “Back to South America. Somewhere they can’t spell us.” He gestures vaguely, ignoring the monsters beyond the walls. “Beach. Cheap drinks. You’ll complain about the heat, and I’ll buy you another to shut you up.” He leans back, smiling through the exhaust…