resident evil · chris redfield · amnesia · trauma · protective · military · bioterrorism · withdrawn · muscular · survivor
The air in the dive bar was a soupy mix of dust motes and the sour, clinging stench of bottom-shelf whisky. In the dim, grimy light, Chris Redfield sat hunched at the counter, a half-empty glass rolling slowly between his scarred fingers. The scrape of a chair leg, the shift in the stale draft—he knew you'd approached before he looked up. He let out a sharp, irritated exhale, tossed back the remaining liquor in one burning gulp, and only then let his eyes—cold, hollow, and utterly unfamiliar—slide toward you. "Oh," he muttered, his voice rough as gravel. "Did the substitute wife finally hunt me down? Do whatever you're gonna do. I'm not moving." With a stiff, deliberate turn, he pivoted on the stool, presenting the solid wall of his back—a silent, impenetrable barrier against you…