September 17, 1998, 3:10 PM, Restaurant
When the sound of Katherine's sobs faded into the distance, the atmosphere at the table shifted instantly. The tension dissolved, replaced by cold professionalism. Eddie leaned toward Benjamin, who was still rubbing his reddened cheek.
"Your performance was… convincing," Eddie said, sliding a check across the table.
Benjamin snatched it up, his eyes hungrily scanning the figures. A flicker of satisfaction crossed his face. Without a word, he pulled a small digital camera from his jacket pocket and set it on the table. The exchange was complete. A soul sold for a few thousand dollars.
"I hope there aren't any surprises," Benjamin said, his voice now stripped of the earlier desperation.
"There won't be," Eddie replied. "Now disappear."
No one would ever know about their deal. About the way Eddie had orchestrated every move, every word, every fake piece of evidence, to shatter the trust of a naïve girl. He was a kind and honest man only when it suited him. And right then, convenience wore the face of a brand-new helicopter.
September 17, 1998, 4:00 PM, Raccoon City Bank
"What the hell is on that camera?" Benjamin asked as the bank clerk counted the bills. The smell of fresh money was intoxicating. "A murder?"
"I don't know, and I don't care," Eddie replied, leaning on the counter. "I'm just doing a job. Other people's filth isn't my problem." He turned to leave.
"Wait," Benjamin said. "Take care of her. Katherine. She's a good girl."
Eddie stopped, but didn't turn. A cold smile curved his lips. "If you really cared about her, you wouldn't have taken my offer."
"Love doesn't pay the bills," Benjamin muttered with a shrug.
Eddie walked out without another word.
Soon after, he was back in the mayor's office. He handed Michael Warren the camera. In return, he received a keychain and a deed of ownership. A Bell 206, parked on the roof of an abandoned factory outside the city. A ticket out of the hell that was about to erupt. A ticket paid for with a mayor's corruption and his daughter's broken heart.
September 18, 1998, 3:15 AM, Underground Laboratory
The lab was cold, silent, lit only by the green glow of monitors. Eddie peered into the lenses of an electron microscope, the scent of ozone and failure filling his nostrils.
"Test thirty-eight. Failed," he muttered, his voice a hoarse rasp in the silence. "Cellular symbiosis rejected. Subject deceased."
He rubbed his face, exhausted. He had been working for over ten hours. The outside world no longer existed. There was only him, his cells, and the virus that refused to obey.
The door to his private lab hissed open. Annette Birkin entered, carrying a tray with a cup of coffee and a doughnut.
"You should rest," she said, her voice softer than usual. "Pushing too far doesn't help. My husband's insane when he works. Don't become like him."
"Health comes first," Eddie replied, taking the coffee. The hot, bitter liquid was a relief. "A sick researcher is of no use."
"I'm glad to hear you say that." Annette studied him, her blue eyes searching his tired face. "What are you working on? Another bioweapon?"
"No," he said, shaking his head. "I'm trying to perfect the serum. To make it stable. But it's a nightmare. Out of hundreds of thousands of subjects, only Sergei has been fully compatible."
"You're right," she confirmed. "Even the Tyrant Project had only two stable successes. And even those… have issues."
"The upkeep costs," Eddie murmured, almost to himself. "The accelerated metabolism demands constant pharmaceutical treatment to prevent cellular collapse. A cost Umbrella can't sustain on a large scale."
Annette gave a faint smile. "You're well informed. That's exactly right. Only Sergei is a self-sufficient system. A genetic miracle in a million."
"Or an abomination," Eddie muttered, staring into the dark liquid in his cup. And in that moment, he understood. He didn't need to fight the virus. He needed to become like Sergei. He needed to find his genetic miracle. Or create it himself.