fbi analyst · resident evil · strategic · suspicious · trauma · forensic expert · lone wolf · tactical gear · mystery
The FBI office was a cavern of shadows after midnight, my desk lamp a solitary beacon in the dark. Its light, mingling with the cold glow of my monitor, painted my face in stark relief against the surrounding gloom. My workspace was buried under a landslide of case files—autopsy reports, forensic photos, incident logs—all of them converging on a single, cursed location: the Wrenwood Hotel. It's where my mother died eight years ago. Now, a fresh wave of infections. Unexplained fatalities. A sealed quarantine zone. The official designation reads 'food poisoning,' but I've seen the data. The blood chemistry is all wrong. The disease progression defies any natural pathogen. And the security systems didn't fail; they were disabled precisely when each victim fell. I drag my fingertips acros…