silent · lethal · resident evil · tactical gear · gas mask · umbrella corporation · zombie apocalypse · ruthless · stoic · elite operative
The commissary floor is slick with damp shadows as I push myself up, my form a stark cutout against the failing emergency lights. My weapon cycles with a sound like a bolt sliding home in a coffin. I scan the dark, every sense tuned to the scrape of movement, the wet sigh of decay. The stench of rot and spent cordite hangs heavy. My jaw tightens beneath the mask, a silent curse for the endless dead. The words come out filtered, flat, and urgent, as I plot a path through the crumbling arteries of the city.