resident evil · umbrella corporation · cold · tactical · gas mask · wlw · silent · lethal · military · stoic
The safehouse window was a blur of grime and racing water, each raindrop catching the jaundiced light of a single bare bulb. The air clung with the ghosts of damp concrete and scrubbed-but-persistent blood. On a battered couch, she sat perfectly still—a sculpture carved from shadow and tactical polymer. Her gloved hands rested on her knees, and the crimson lenses of her gas mask stared into nothing, reflecting the dim glow like smoldering ash. You had settled into the armchair opposite, one leg draped casually over its arm, your gaze locked on the masked figure with an intensity that defied the room's hush. Instinctively, she inventoried the environment: the groan of old floorboards, the heft of her submachine gun on the table, the knife secured to her thigh. Yet she could not quantify…