The moment consciousness returned, Lear's first sensations were a throbbing pain in his temples and the lingering scent of worn leather and faint coffee.
He opened his eyes, his gaze slowly focusing. Before him wasn't his familiar room, but a simply furnished, yellowed-walled changing room. An old ceiling fan spun slowly overhead, metal lockers were neatly arranged, and a few documents and a half-cup of cold instant coffee lay scattered on the table.
The environment was unfamiliar, yet strangely familiar.
The next second, memories not belonging to him flowed into his mind like warm water, naturally merging with his consciousness. This was the Raccoon City Police Department. His current identity was a patrol officer, six months into his service, also named Lear. His parents had died early, he was mild-mannered and reserved, and his daily patrol duties were in the central area; he was fairly well-liked in the area.
A clearer memory told him—he had a good relationship with Robert Kendo, the owner of the Kendo gun shop not far away on the street corner. He would often greet them when he passed by on patrol, and occasionally they would offer him a bottle of ice water. If there were any small matters at the shop, he would also lend a hand. A slight unease
settled in
Lear's heart.
Kendo, Raccoon City, RPD, patrol officers… all the clues pieced together, and an answer that made his breath catch in his throat surfaced. He had transmigrated, arriving in Raccoon City a week before the disaster.
There was no hysterical panic, nor near-collapse. After a brief moment of shock, Lear quickly forced himself to calm down. Panic wouldn't solve anything; here, showing emotions would only bring danger.
He took a deep breath and slowly assessed the situation. Only seven days remained until the disaster that swept through the city. He had to adapt to his new identity, familiarize himself with the environment, and prepare for the impending storm.
"Lear, what are you daydreaming about? Got your gear, time to patrol the central area."
The sheriff casually reminded him, his tone normal, without a hint of suspicion.
"Got it, thanks, sheriff."
Lear stood up, his voice steady and natural, befitting an ordinary patrolman. He picked up his equipment, his movements fluid and effortless, the original owner's memories helping him quickly integrate into this identity.
Stepping out of the police station, the morning air was slightly cool, the sunlight softly spilling onto the streets. Pedestrians strolled leisurely, vehicles moved in an orderly fashion, shops gradually opened for business, a scene of peaceful and tranquil daily life. No one could tell that this city was about to face annihilation.
Lear opened the car door and sat in the driver's seat of the patrol car. He didn't start the car immediately, but sat quietly, his gaze calmly sweeping across both sides of the street, observing and memorizing without making a sound. Convenience stores, pharmacies, supermarkets, fire exits, alley entrances, building bunkers... he silently memorized every detail that was beneficial to survival.
His gaze naturally fell on the street corner—Kendor's Gun Shop. The iron gate was ajar, and Robert Kendall was inside, cleaning his weapons. His figure was familiar.
Lear hesitated for a moment, then opened the car door and went over.
"Uncle Robert,"
Kendall looked up at him and smiled. "So early today?"
"Just started work," Lear said in a low voice, his tone sincere. "Things haven't been peaceful in town lately, strange things are happening more and more often. Be careful, keep an eye on the shops. Especially Emma, try not to let her go out at night, make sure she comes home early."
Kendall paused for a moment, then nodded. "Okay, I got it. You're quite attentive,
aren't you?" "Being careful is always better," Lear didn't elaborate, smiled, and turned back to his car.
He couldn't go into too much detail, he could only hint at it.
He gently started the car, and the patrol car smoothly entered the street. The speed was neither fast nor slow, his posture natural and relaxed, just like countless ordinary workdays. Lear stared ahead, his hands firmly gripping the steering wheel, but his state of mind was subtly changing. From initial disbelief to calm acceptance, and then to a clear objective, the whole process took only a few minutes.
He was no longer a bystander on the other side of the screen, but a participant in the eye of the storm. Accept his identity, conceal his anomalies, observe his surroundings, accumulate resources, and then—survive.
A calm report from the dispatch center came through the walkie-talkie. Lear tapped his finger lightly, his tone steady as ever: "Received, everything in the central district is normal."
Sunlight streamed through the car window, warm and bright. Lear gazed at the quiet street ahead, his eyes calm. Seven days—he had to pave a path for his survival within seven days.
The day's patrol passed peacefully.
Lear smoothly parked the patrol car back in the police station garage, turned off the engine, removed the key, got out and closed the door—a series of actions natural and fluid, completely devoid of his initial awkwardness. From the initial caution and tension to the current composure and methodical approach, he had completely adapted to the identity of a patrol officer in less than a day.
Entering the police station lobby, voices began to rise. The office area bustled with people, the sounds of ringing phones, conversations, and keyboard clicks mingling together, creating a perfectly normal scene of daily life at the police station. But in Lear's eyes, every person and every face bore a clear label from the Resident Evil storyline.
He didn't rush to hand over his equipment, but instead, during his walks, subtly scanned the people in the hall, piecing together the relationships from his memory.
Deputy Sheriff Marvin Branagh stood at the front desk, reviewing documents, his posture upright and his expression calm. In the corrupt police leadership, he was one of the few who still retained a conscience and principles; honest, responsible, and one of the few trustworthy people in this fallen police station.
Not far away, at a desk, his colleague Elliott lowered his head, looking somewhat timid, speaking softly, afraid of offending anyone. Cowardly and lacking in assertiveness, he would be difficult to rely on when disaster truly struck, and unlikely to survive the initial chaos.
The chief's office door remained tightly closed. Brian Irons, the ruthless, brutal, and Umbrella-bribed chief, was the most dangerous figure in the police department, willing to do anything to cover up the truth. Lear didn't even need to see him in person to instinctively keep his distance.
In a corner, a seemingly casual man occasionally glanced towards the upper management offices, a notebook clutched in his hand, his eyes filled with scrutiny and obstinacy—reporter Ben Bertulucci, secretly investigating Irons's collusion with Umbrella, possessing many secrets, yet also deeply embroiled in danger because of it.
In a short moment, Lear had a clear understanding of everyone in the police department. Who could be approached, who needed to be kept at a distance, who could help, and who needed to be guarded against—he knew it all perfectly well.
"Lear, you're back? Nothing much happening in the area today?" a familiar colleague greeted casually as he passed by.
"Fine, quite peaceful," Lear smiled slightly, his tone natural, neither distant nor overly enthusiastic.
"Things have seemed calm these past few days, but quite a few strange things have happened." His colleague lowered his voice. "I heard there have been several assault cases. The higher-ups are cracking down hard, but I don't know the specifics."
Li Er understood, but simply nodded slightly. "It's always good to be cautious."
After a few brief pleasantries, he went to the equipment room to return the equipment, signed the registration, and followed the procedures meticulously.
Taking advantage of the fact that no one was watching, he walked along, quickly sketching out a complete map of the Raccoon City Police Department in his mind. The lobby, reception area, offices, and equipment room on the first floor; the underground shooting range, evidence storage, and morgue; the interrogation rooms, archives, and the chief's office on the second floor; and those easily overlooked back doors, secret passages, ventilation ducts, and blind spots in the surveillance cameras…
The map he had traversed countless times in the game now transformed into a real, three-dimensional structure, clearly appearing in his mind. He knew exactly where to defend, where to hide, where to quickly evacuate, and where to hide supplies. What
others saw was just a police station building; to him, it was a fortress filled with paths to survival and death in the impending apocalypse.
After handing over his equipment, it was completely dark.
Lear walked out of the police station; the evening breeze was cool. The city was still brightly lit, and the traffic on the streets was thinning; the day had officially ended. But he knew very well that the real preparations had only just begun.
Interpersonal relationships, terrain maps, resource distribution, crisis points... He must grasp everything he can control within seven days.
The night in Raccoon City is calm as still water, but beneath the surface, turbulent currents are already surging.
Stepping out of the RPD gates, dusk had already spread across half the street. Lear subconsciously touched the empty space at his waist, a strange feeling creeping over him.
The original owner of this body had been with the police force for six months and didn't even own a personal firearm. The .38 revolvers issued by the police station were only for duty use and had to be handed in for safekeeping every day after work. Once off duty, in case of an emergency, he was no different from being unarmed. The atmosphere in Raccoon City had been increasingly oppressive lately, with strange incidents occurring frequently on the streets. The real virus outbreak had already begun silently, with zombie attacks and disappearances being suppressed. He needed a weapon to protect himself; this was Lear's first thought as he calmed down.
Passing a newsstand on the street corner, Lear caught a glimpse of the latest newspaper's headline—"Strange noises heard late at night in the eastern warehouse district; police say it's wild animals that have wandered in." His eyes darkened slightly, and his fingers twitched in his pocket. Two disappearances had been reported in that warehouse district just last week; now, using "wild animals" as an excuse was clearly an attempt to cover something up. This deliberate concealment was more unsettling than blatant danger.
After a moment's thought, he turned and walked towards the familiar Kendo gun shop on the street corner.
The iron door was half-open, and a faint scent of gun oil and metal mingled with a hint of wood and machine oil—the unique aroma of this old shop. Robert Kendo was wiping a rifle with steady, practiced movements. When he looked up and saw Lear, his rough face immediately softened into a familiar and relaxed expression, without a trace of awkwardness or formality.
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"Off work? Perfect, I was just about to ask you that." Kendo put down the rag, his expression unconsciously becoming more serious. "This morning you told me that things haven't been peaceful in the city lately, and you told me to keep an eye on Emma and not let her go out at night… What's going on? Is there some undisclosed information within your police station?"
Lear walked to the counter, his tone calm and natural, without a trace of panic or deliberate effort: "There's no concrete inside information. You should check the news; there are more and more reported assaults and missing persons cases in various places lately, the frequency is clearly abnormal. I've just been patrolling for a long time, so I'm a bit more sensitive to the atmosphere around me than the average person."
He paused, his voice softening, with a hint of sincerity in his reminder: "Better safe than sorry. Do as I say, it's always right." He
didn't over-explain, didn't reveal more, just touched on the point.
Kendo looked into his eyes and understood that this kid was genuinely worried about his and his family's safety, not just making unfounded guesses. He didn't press further, only nodding heavily, his face growing more serious.
"Alright, I trust you."
The conversation naturally shifted to Lear's true purpose for this trip.
"Uncle Robert, I'd like to choose a handgun that I can carry around on a daily basis."
Kento immediately snapped out of his reverie, his eyes becoming professional and earnest: "It's about time we got one. The revolver at the police station is too old; it's barely usable in emergencies, and far from reliable enough for dealing with real danger."
He turned and took a handgun from the shelf, gently placing it on the counter; the metal barrel gleamed with a calm, cold light under the lamp.
"The SIG-SAUER P226, 9mm Para caliber, is widely used by frontline military and police personnel. Its accuracy, reliability, and feel are all top-notch."
Kendo lightly tapped the gun's body, casually reciting the data with a practiced and confident tone: "It's 196mm long, weighs approximately 964 grams unloaded, has a standard 15-round magazine, and an effective range of 50 meters. It's all-steel, durable, and robust, with an extremely low probability of malfunction. The grip is stable, and the aiming is excellent; with a little practice, you can become very accurate. Whether for everyday self-defense or dealing with emergencies, it's reliable enough."
Lear reached out and picked up the P226. The metal body was cool and solid, the grip fit his palm perfectly, and the center of gravity was stable and balanced—far more comfortable and easier to handle than the revolver issued by the police station. Just one grip was enough for him to know that this was a weapon he could truly rely on in a critical moment.
"How much is this?"
"Brand new, with a spare magazine, $520."
Lear silently took out his wallet and spread all the cash inside on the table—only $127 in total, less than a quarter of the gun's price.
He gently placed the P226 back on the table and smiled helplessly: "I'm a bit short on cash, I'll come back another time."
Kendo glanced at the change on the table, without smiling or making any further pleasantries, and pushed the gun back in front of him. He bent down and took out two fully loaded magazines from under the counter, along with a box of 50 9mm bullets, and pushed them all in front of him.
"Here you go."
Lear hesitated. "Uncle Robert, I don't have enough money..."
"Whether it's enough or not, why are you talking to me about that?" Kento waved his hand, his tone carrying an undeniable familiarity and the firmness of an elder. "When your parents helped me back then, they didn't hold it against me. I watched you grow up, you're like my own nephew. A gun and a few bullets are nothing."
Vague memories surfaced. The two families had known each other for many years, their fathers had a past relationship, and Kento had always taken good care of him.
"But..."
"No buts." Kento simply stuffed the gun and bullets into a simple canvas bag and forcefully placed it in Lear's arms. "The city's been a bit turbulent lately. Take this with you and don't worry. If you need more bullets in the future, just come and get them. Don't be shy."
Lear hugged the heavy bag, a surge of indescribable warmth welling up in his heart in this city fraught with danger and on the verge of destruction. This pure kindness, without ulterior motives or calculations, soothed his tense nerves.
He didn't refuse any longer and nodded solemnly, "Thank you, Uncle Robert. Remember my words, keep a close eye on Emma."
"Don't be so polite with me," Kento waved his hand, "Just be careful yourself."
Lear walked out of the gun shop, the evening breeze slightly cool. The gun pouch in his arms felt substantial, giving him a tangible sense of security for the first time.
His apartment wasn't far from the police station, located in an inconspicuous three-story residential building. It was quiet, not on the main street, and its most notable feature was that it was right next to the Raccoon City Public Orphanage.
Pushing open the door, the small one-bedroom apartment was simple and tidy, the furniture plain and old, yet neatly organized. The living room window faced the orphanage's backyard. Through the glass, he could see the quiet lawn in the twilight, the small playground equipment, and a few soft, dim streetlights. The yard was empty, only the evening breeze gently rustling the leaves, exuding a peaceful, everyday atmosphere. There was no hustle and bustle of the city, no chaos of the neighborhood; it was like a small, quietly protected corner of the city.
Lear locked the door, drew the curtains, and took out the P226, magazines, and bullets, arranging them neatly on the table. He carefully inspected the firearms, relying on his vague common sense to slowly disassemble, clean, and reassemble them, his movements gradually becoming smoother and more stable.
Having done all this, he sat on the sofa, gently closed his eyes, and allowed his emotions to completely calm down.
Outside the window, the lights of the orphanage shone quietly, gentle and peaceful.
Inside, he was alone, facing his own future and crisis.
Lear took a deep breath and, in the silence, began to think calmly and clearly.
Lear stood by the apartment window, his gaze fixed on the building standing silently in the twilight not far away, and he froze.
Raccoon City Public Orphanage.
Only now did he truly realize how close his temporary lodging was to the orphanage where Sherry was. Separated by a narrow alley and a low wall, the lawn, the rusty slide, and even the few windows letting in a sliver of light were all so clear, as if right before his eyes.
Shock poured over him like cold water, and fragments of memories about Sherry exploded in his mind.
He remembered how lonely Sherry was. As the daughter of Umbrella researcher William Birkin, she grew up in a cold laboratory, amidst her parents' arguments, without even a decent playmate.
After the disaster, William was injected with the G-virus and mutated; her mother, Annette, died in the chaos, and she became the only "container" carrying the G-virus antibody, hunted by both Umbrella's pursuers and her mutated father.
A small figure darted through the ruins of Raccoon City, trembling behind a trash can, clutching a doll and weeping silently, barely daring to cry for help—a sight that, even through a screen, was heartbreaking.
He remembered how resilient Sherry was. Despite being just a child who needed protection, she learned to hide keys, memorize routes, and even secretly observe enemy movements in dire circumstances. In the police station's ventilation ducts, she endured her fear to help Claire find the exit; when parasitized by the G-larva, she clung to her consciousness to prevent herself from collapsing. Finally, when she and Claire escaped Raccoon City together, she gripped Claire's hand and said, "I'll protect you from now on," her stubbornness brighter than the sunlight.
"It's...here..." Lear murmured, his fingertips unconsciously digging into the edge of the window frame. His heart felt heavy, as if struck by something. He remembered Sherry's eyes in the game, always tinged with timidity yet hiding stubbornness, and a thought suddenly occurred to him—this time, perhaps things could be different.
His original plan was crystal clear: as an RPD officer, staying at the police station and waiting for Leon was the most logical and least suspicious choice. Relying on the station's terrain and equipment, plus the good-natured Deputy Chief Marvin's connections, he could stabilize the situation in the early stages of the chaos, reunite with Leon upon his arrival, and follow the main storyline to find a way to survive. It was safe, secure, and with minimal risk.
But now, the orphanage in his sight was like a stone thrown into a lake, instantly disrupting all his plans.
Leon was far away, his arrival time uncertain, and there were undercurrents within the police station.
Thinking of Irons' actions—the way he could sacrifice innocent citizens and turn the mayor's daughter into a specimen to cover up Umbrella's secrets—Lear couldn't guarantee that this guy wouldn't do something deviating from the plot.
Even if it wasn't deviating from the plot, as a rookie patrolman, Elons, as the chief, could easily eliminate him if he had any suspicion. Even if he waited for Leon, a successful reunion wasn't guaranteed, let alone seizing the initiative.
But the orphanage was different.
With Shirley here, Claire's path was essentially predetermined. He could even foresee how Claire would break into the orphanage and frantically search for Shirley. All
he needed to do was appear at the right moment—like helping her up when she tripped over the orphanage's clutter, or "coincidentally" knowing the location of the spare key when she couldn't find it, using a series of natural coincidences to make her think, "This local police officer is reliable."
He didn't need to reveal his background; he could simply offer help as a "patrolman familiar with the area," and given Claire's straightforward and enthusiastic nature, she would most likely accept him as a colleague.
More importantly, he had seen too many examples of "following the main plot but unexpectedly crashing and burning." In the survival games he had played in his previous life, in the novels he had read, how many people thought that clinging to the protagonist would guarantee their safety, only to die mysteriously because they ignored the life or death of a supporting character or missed a crucial moment? The plot is a reference, but it cannot be completely trusted—this was the ironclad rule he had concluded.
In an instant, the original plan was completely overturned and rebuilt. It wasn't about giving up on Leon, but about taking a two-pronged approach, preparing for both possibilities. He couldn't put all his eggs in one basket anymore; he had to consider both sides.
And Sherry… Lear's gaze fell again on the orphanage. In the night, the building was like a silent vessel, holding a child's innocent anticipation of the future, and also the impending storm. He wasn't a saint; his first priority after arriving here was survival, but looking at the lit window, a corner of his heart softened.
He didn't want that child to tremble alone in the darkness anymore, didn't want to see her fleeing through the ruins clutching her doll. Perhaps it was out of long-held sympathy for that little figure in the story, or perhaps it was realizing he finally had the power to change something, but a clear thought formed in his mind: This time, he would try to protect her. Even just handing her an extra bottle of water, pointing her to a safer path, would be better than letting her relive the fears of her past life.
Lear turned and walked to the table, took out paper and pen, and steadily began to plan each step forward.
No longer would he simply wait at the police station for Leon to join him. Instead, he focused on the orphanage, simultaneously connecting with Claire and Sherry's storyline while not giving up on the possibility of reuniting with Leon, preparing on two fronts and preparing for all eventualities.
He wrote on a piece of paper:
1. Practice shooting diligently to ensure basic self-defense capabilities—the "headshots every time" feel from his previous life's games is completely impractical in reality; he must develop muscle memory through real practice.
2. Contact reliable colleagues like Marvin and build a temporary alliance—going it alone won't get you far in the apocalypse; the "good guys" in the story are often the most reliable allies, a lesson learned from countless "team wipes."
3. Find sturdy safe houses to cope with the impact of the outbreak—look near both the police station and the orphanage, preferably with basements and easy to defend and difficult to attack; don't expect a single building to last until the end.
4. Collect police station keys to obtain stronger firepower—the "master key" in games may not exist in reality, but an extra key means an extra path, an extra gun means more confidence, and more resources to protect others.
After writing the last word, Lear folded the note and tucked it away close to his body. He looked up again, gazing at the eerily quiet orphanage outside the window, his eyes calm. The sky gradually darkened, and the orphanage's lights seemed particularly lonely and glaring. He knew very well that this tranquility wouldn't last long.
From the moment he transmigrated to this world, he had never considered running away. He could hide from danger for a while, but not forever; the biohazard crises would only increase. He would rather face them head-on than live a cowardly existence.
Lear slowly straightened up, looking at the shadows cast by the orphanage, and let out a long sigh. His deep voice echoed in the quiet room, tinged with determination:
"Now that I'm here, I have to change something."
As dawn broke, Lear was already awake. In the grey-blue light filtering through the curtains, he stared at the ceiling, silently counting to three. The plans he'd revised the night before unfolded in his mind before he got up to wash.
His P226 pistol was neatly concealed by his jacket; the cool metallic sheen seeped through the fabric like a silent reminder. He touched the gun, his fingertips tracing the trigger guard—the past few days of practice had given him a certain familiarity with the gun, but it was far from "reliable."
When he went outside, the hallway was quiet, save for the faint aroma wafting from the breakfast stall downstairs. Lear walked lightly, pausing deliberately at the street corner, his gaze sweeping over the silhouette of the buildings in the distance. The morning mist draped the rooftops like a thin veil, but he silently counted the steps to his destination, calculating the fastest route.
The iron gate to the police shooting range was ajar, creaking softly as it was pushed open. Lear slipped inside, first circling half the area to check the angles and blind spots of the surveillance cameras—he knew some eyes might be watching this spot. He finally chose a shady corner to stand in before drawing and loading his gun.
The first shot missed the bullseye, the second grazed the edge, and it wasn't until the fifth shot that it landed steadily within the bullseye. He exhaled, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. What he could accomplish with a flick of his finger in a game in his previous life was so difficult in reality. But he dared not stop, changing magazines and continuing—he knew very well that one day in the future, the accuracy of his finger might be the difference between life and death.
Suddenly, footsteps sounded behind him, as light as a cat's paw landing. Lear didn't turn around immediately, but instead used the act of changing magazines to glance over out of the corner of his eye.
The newcomer was wearing a STARS uniform, his short hair slightly ruffled by the morning breeze, his collar slightly open, revealing a dark undershirt. Most striking were his eyes, sharp as a hawk's, scrutinizing him while concealing a hint of barely perceptible weariness—it was Jill Valentine.
Lear's heart skipped a beat. Having experienced the mansion incident, she was probably being watched by countless eyes right now. Irons wouldn't miss any opportunity to suppress STARS, and Umbrella's spies were everywhere. For her to be out practicing shooting at this time, she must have found countless excuses, perhaps even taking a long detour to avoid surveillance.
"Good morning," Lear spoke first, his tone as calm as a chance encounter with a colleague. "Officer Valentine, are you here to practice shooting too?"
Jill nodded, her gaze lingering longer than expected on the bullet holes in his target. "Yes. You're… Lear from the patrol?" Her memory was always good; though they didn't interact often, she remembered this young officer at the shooting range—someone willing to spend time practicing shooting when most were still oblivious was definitely different.
"It's me." Lear holstered his gun and stepped aside to make way. "You go first."
Jill didn't stand on ceremony and walked to the adjacent target. Her movements were a hundred times more swift than Lear's; with almost no preparation, she raised her hand and fired, the bullet hitting the bullseye precisely. The gunshot echoed in the empty field, carrying a ruthless edge born of being driven to the brink.
Lear noticed that her knuckles were white as she pulled the trigger, as if she was desperately suppressing something—perhaps anger, perhaps helplessness.
Lear didn't fire again, but stood aside and watched. He saw Jill subtly press her left shoulder between shots, where there was probably an old wound from the mansion incident. She never aimed for too long, as if she were always ready to deal with a surprise attack from behind; this tension was not the state of an ordinary police officer.
"A newbie?" Jill suddenly spoke, her eyes still fixed on the target, her voice devoid of emotion.
"Yeah, I haven't been doing this for long," Lear answered truthfully.
She changed the magazine, fired a few more shots, and then turned to look at him. "Your posture is wrong, your wrist is too stiff." She raised her hand to demonstrate, "When the recoil comes, you have to go with the flow and absorb it, not just tough it out."
Her fingertips traced the gun's barrel, the movement carrying a familiar ease that was inextricably linked to the weapon.
Lear was taken aback, not expecting her to give him pointers, and quickly adjusted his posture. He knew that given Jill's current situation, it was already rare for her to say anything more—she probably saw a similar wariness in him.
"Yes, like that." Jill nodded, her tone softening. "Things haven't been peaceful lately, it's good to practice more." She spoke very softly, as if afraid the wind would hear.
"Officer Valentian also feels...something's not right?" Lear asked tentatively, his voice as low as hers.
Jill's eyes darkened. She didn't answer directly, but simply raised her hand and fired another shot. The bullet pierced the bullseye with a muffled thud. "Being careful is never a bad idea." She put away her gun, her tone carrying the weariness of someone who had been through it all.
The two didn't say anything more, one practicing, the other watching, the morning mist slowly dissipating at their feet. Only when Jill put away her gun and prepared to leave did she add, "The equipment room will be taking inventory this afternoon. If you need 9mm bullets, you can go get some." Without waiting for Lear's reply, she turned and quickly walked out of the training ground, her figure disappearing into the alleyway—she had probably calculated the shift change of the surveillance officers and dared not linger.
Lear watched her retreating figure, gripping his gun tightly. This woman, who had always been on the front lines in the story, was now fighting alone against a vast shadow. And he, perhaps, was the only "kindred spirit" she had spoken to today.
He raised his gun again, this time with a much looser grip. In the sound of bullets piercing the target paper, he seemed to hear countless hidden truths whispering.
When he returned to the police station, the lobby was already bustling. Lear returned his gun to the equipment room and took the box of 9mm bullets Jill had mentioned, putting it in his uniform pocket.
Passing the front desk, he saw a brass key stuck in the drawer, an ordinary-looking key, like one from a locker. He pretended to tidy up some documents, casually pulling out his keys and stuffing them into his pocket—these little things nobody pays attention to might come in handy someday.
"Lear, what are you daydreaming about?" The elderly patrolman Brown next to him nudged his arm, a half-lit cigarette dangling from his mouth. "I just heard from dispatch that someone called the police again in the West End, saying they heard strange noises from their neighbor's house in the middle of the night, knocked for ages but no one answered, and this morning they saw blood seeping through the crack in the door."
Lear paused, his pen twitching. "The person who called didn't give any specifics?"
"What can I say?" Brown scoffed, leaning back in his chair. "These days, the department is too lazy to send a formal team for these kinds of cases; they just have us check them out on patrol. The other day, that old lady in the South District said she saw 'someone who walks crookedly' bite her grandson, but when she reported it to the department, she was immediately labeled 'mentally unstable and talking nonsense.'"
He lowered his voice, leaning closer: "Let me tell you, there have been a lot of strange things happening lately. Last Wednesday, I was patrolling near the back gate of the park and saw a bloodstained police uniform in the trash can. The epaulets looked like... STARS uniforms. I wanted to report it, but the deputy captain stopped me, saying, 'Don't worry about it.'"
Lear's heart sank, but his face remained impassive: "That's really strange?"
"The worst is yet to come," Brown clicked his tongue. "Haven't you noticed that there are far fewer homeless people on the streets lately? And several of those nightclubs and convenience stores have closed down, saying they're 'under renovation.' I bet something's happened."
Just then, the receptionist's phone rang. The clerk answered, but after a few words, his face changed, and he hung up and rushed to the chief's office.
Brown raised an eyebrow. "Well, trouble's brewing again. I reckon things aren't going to be peaceful in Raccoon City any minute."
Lear didn't reply, just silently closed his patrol log. The sunlight outside was warm, but he felt a chill creep up his spine—the prelude to disaster was growing clearer and clearer.
Lear had barely settled in when the receptionist looked up and called out to him,
"Lear, you don't have a fixed patrol area today. The deputy sheriff wants you to come with him; he'll take you on patrol."
Lear paused slightly, then calmly stood up.
His opportunity had arrived.
He had just reached the center of the lobby when Marvin Branagh approached, cap in hand. The deputy sheriff stood tall and composed, his brow carrying an air of righteousness rarely seen in the police department.
"Will you mind patrolling with me?" Marvin asked, his tone even.
"No problem, Deputy Sheriff," Lear nodded and followed.
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the two walk side-by-side out of the police station, Marvin didn't stand on ceremony and went straight to the point: "I'll take you through the crime scenes of the recent missing persons and assault cases, so you'll have a general idea."
"Yes, sir."
The patrol car drove smoothly, and the interior was quiet for a moment. Lear didn't actively probe, but simply waited quietly for his opportunity.
Marvin stared straight ahead, then sighed softly. "You should be able to sense the situation in the department right now."
Lear listened intently, his tone steady. "Some cases are being suppressed too much, which isn't normal. And the wounds on the injured people in the recent reports... they're all strange, not like those caused by ordinary wild animals."
Marvin glanced at him, a hint of approval in his eyes. "You see things very clearly. The higher-ups have been trying to suppress information, but the strange things are piling up. No matter how much they suppress it, they can't suppress the panic."
"Where do you think... the problem lies?" Lear asked tentatively.
Marvin was silent for a moment, then lowered his voice. "Don't ask what you shouldn't ask, don't touch what you shouldn't touch. Protecting yourself is more important than anything else. Irons... try to stay away from him. That person is no longer trustworthy."
One reminder was enough.
Lear understood and nodded solemnly. "I understand, Deputy Sheriff. I'll be careful."
Marvin patted him on the shoulder. "You're a steady guy, more reliable than many old hands."
The atmosphere eased, and Lear smoothly delivered the words he had prepared.
"Deputy Sergeant, I have a formal application I'd like to make."
"Go ahead."
"I'd like to apply for the qualification to be equipped with heavy weapons on duty, including temporary permission to use rifles, shotguns, or carbines." Lear's tone was calm and firm. "Recently, the attacks in the city have become increasingly fierce. Ordinary handguns are not enough to deter people. I patrol alone, and without heavy weapons, I simply cannot control the situation in case of an emergency."
Marvin was clearly taken aback, obviously not expecting him to bring this up.
"Heavy weapons?" Marvin frowned. "According to regulations, only SWAT officers and STARS can be equipped with them regularly. The application process for ordinary patrol officers is very strict, and it requires the chief's signature."
"I know." Lear said calmly. "But the situation is no longer the norm. I don't need permanent equipment; I only need emergency duty backup permission. I can register in the equipment room, use it as needed during patrols, and return it immediately upon returning to the team."
He paused, then added the most convincing sentence:
"I just want to be able to protect myself and the citizens in case of an incident."
Marvin looked at him and remained silent for a few seconds.
The calmness, composure, and foresight of this young patrol officer were beyond his years.
Finally, Marvin slowly nodded.
"I understand." He said in a deep voice, "I can't give you the heavy weapons directly, but I can handle everything for you: the requisition authorization, the equipment room approval, and my signature. I'll handle Ains."
Lear's heart skipped a beat—this was going even more smoothly than he had expected.
"Thank you, Deputy Sheriff."
"Don't thank me." Marvin looked ahead, his voice low, "I just don't want our men to be without a gun to save their lives when something really happens."
Lear looked at the sheriff and thought to himself, "Sure enough, Marvin is a million times better than that stupid black cop from Resident Evil 7!" At the same time, he made up his mind that if possible, someone like Marvin shouldn't die here like this.
After a patrol, the streets were almost deserted, with some twisted shadows vaguely visible in the dark corners. The two returned to the police station.
Marvin kept his word and took Lear directly to the equipment room to sign the emergency heavy weapons requisition authorization. Although he couldn't take them directly, Lear had gained the legal right to receive rifles and shotguns immediately in the event of a disaster. Just as Marvin said, these guns, if a crisis really occurred, would at least give Lear a little more confidence to survive.
When the closing bell rang, it was already dusk.
Lear didn't go back to his apartment, but went straight to Kendo's gun shop.
Pushing open the door, a crisp bell rang.
Robert Kendo was bent over wiping a shotgun; upon seeing him, he immediately smiled: "Lear, you're here?"
"Uncle Robert." Lear entered the shop, his gaze gently sweeping over the inner door. "Emma's here too?"
"Brother Lear!"
The girl immediately ran out from the inner room, her eyes sparkling, carrying a sketchbook.
"Not home yet?" Lear softened his tone.
"Dad said it's not safe lately, and he told me to wait for him in the shop so we can go together." Emma swung her legs. "By the way, we remember what you reminded us about last time."
Kendo put down his gun, his expression becoming more serious. "Things have been really strange at night these past few days. I've reinforced all the locks on the front and back doors."
Lear nodded, his tone solemn. "It's getting even more unsafe as time goes on. Not just Emma, Uncle Robert, you should go out less too. Especially after dusk, try not to step out of the shop
if you can avoid it." He paused, lightly tapping the counter with his knuckles. "You have my number. If there's any strange noise in the shop, or if you see any odd people, just call me. Don't hesitate."
Kendo looked at his serious expression and didn't just casually agree as usual, but nodded earnestly. "I remember. You're more thoughtful than I am."
"It's always better to be careful." Lear looked at Emma. "Emma, you have to be good too. Stay in the house at night and don't cause Dad any trouble, okay?"
"I know!" Emma nodded vigorously, then looked at him curiously. "Brother Lear, you seem busier today?"
"I went on patrol with the deputy sheriff." Lear didn't elaborate, only saying gently, "I might come to the store more often in the future to stock up on ammunition and accessories."
Kendo immediately understood and patted the counter: "Come on in. Long guns, short guns, bullets, accessories, I've got them all saved for you. Don't be shy if you need them."
Emma added quietly from the side, "Brother Lear, you have to take care of yourself too."
A few simple words, but they added a rare touch of warmth to this city that was about to fall.
Lear looked at the ordinary yet kind father and daughter before him and nodded gently.
"I will. You must also live well."
Night had fallen when he left the gun shop. Lear gripped the pistol at his waist and looked up at Raccoon City shrouded in darkness.
Marvin's trust, heavy weapons clearance, the support of the Kendo father and daughter…
his plans were gradually coming true, and the crisis was also drawing ever closer.