My first instinct was to stay exactly where I was. Do not go over there, Lysander. This isn't your problem.
But my meta-knowledge kicked in. I didn't actually need Elliot's notebook—as a hardcore fan, I had the Lion, Unicorn, and Maiden statue puzzle solutions permanently burned into my brain from countless playthroughs.
But I did need Elliot's service weapon. And maybe, if I was fast enough, I could actually save the guy before he became zombie chow. Plus, a phone flashlight wasn't going to stop a Licker.
I looked over at the empty couch where Lieutenant Marvin Branagh was supposed to be sitting. He wasn't there, but sitting right on the reception desk next to a plastic nameplate was a heavy, beautifully crafted combat knife.
Marvin's knife.
The iconic survival tool of a doomed legend. I picked it up, admiring the sleek, cold steel and the perfect weight of the grip. It was an absolute masterpiece of weaponry.
And honestly? Huge shoutout to the RPD's completely terrible workplace safety standards for just leaving deadly weapons out in the open lobby for any random civilian to grab. Five-star customer service right there.
I gave the blade a quick, totally unnecessary tactical spin—nearly slicing my own thumb off in the process—took a deep breath, and jogged over to the East Wing. I dropped to my knees and squeezed myself under the heavy steel shutter.
The hallway on the other side was a sensory nightmare. It was pitch black, ankle-deep in murky, freezing water, and it smelled like a butcher shop whose AC had been broken for a week.
"Hey! Hurry!" I rounded the corner and saw Elliot slamming his fists against a jammed security shutter. I sprinted toward him, my lungs burning.
"I'm here! Hold on!" I yelled, dropping to grab the bottom of the heavy metal door, heaving upward with everything I had.
Elliot threw himself onto his stomach and scrambled halfway under the door. "Pull me!" he screamed.
I grabbed him by the shoulders and hauled backward. But just as his waist cleared the metal edge, a pair of blood-soaked hands shot out from the darkness behind him and locked onto his boots.
In the game, this was just a cutscene. In reality, the sound of Elliot screaming in pure, agonizing terror as teeth sank into his calves was absolutely horrifying.
"They've got me! Ahhh!" Elliot thrashed violently. With a shaking, blood-covered hand, he reached into his vest and shoved a small, leather-bound notebook into my chest.
"Take it!"
With one sickening, wet tearing sound, Elliot was violently ripped backward into the pitch black.
I fell backward into the flooded hallway, clutching the bloody notebook. The metal shutter slammed shut with a deafening
CLANG.
Splash. I froze. Down the dark corridor, the "dead" bodies slumped against the walls were beginning to twitch. Three figures staggered to their feet.
"Nope," I whimpered.
I scrambled to my feet and bolted back the way I came, practically throwing myself onto the floor and sliding back under the gap in the main hall shutter just as a pair of rotting fingers swiped at my heels.
I rolled onto my back in the safety of the Main Hall, gasping for air. I survived. Barely.
But before I could even process the adrenaline crash, the heavy, metallic click of a revolver hammer echoed loudly through the cavernous room. A blinding beam of light hit me directly in the eyes.
"Hey! Don't move!" a firm, feminine voice called out.
I flinched, squinting through the harsh glare. Standing a few feet away, gripping a snub-nosed revolver with both hands, was a young woman in a very tight red leather jacket, her ponytail damp from the freezing rain outside.
Claire Redfield.
And let me tell you, the jump from 1080p to real life did her a lot of favors. For a split second, my terror was entirely overridden by my male brain going, Well, hello there.
"Keep your hands exactly where I can see them," Claire ordered, taking a cautious step forward. She looked at the blood smeared across my shirt. "Are you bitten?"
Her sharp, deadly serious tone violently snapped me out of my inappropriate daydream.
"No! I'm completely human! Please don't shoot me!" I stammered, throwing my hands up.
Claire's eyes narrowed. "Who are you? What are you doing in here?"
I swallowed hard, trying to look cool despite looking like a drowned rat. "My name is Lysander. Lysander Aurelius Maximus. I... I just got here."
Claire blinked, clearly thrown off by the ridiculously grand name. "Okay, Lysander," she said slowly. "Where did all that blood come from?"
I explained what happened with Elliot and showed her the notebook. Claire's hardened survivor act cracked for a second to reveal genuine horror. I pointed out the massive blood trail leading under the West Wing shutter.
"If there's a cop bleeding out over there, we have to go find him," Claire said firmly. "Are you with me, Maximus?"
"I'm with you," I said quickly.