Chris Redfield - CV

The chill of the Antarctic air bit through Chris's jacket as he stepped cautiously into the ruined facility. Steam hissed from broken pipes, mixing with the faint scent of burning metal. The alarms had long since gone silent. Only the distant echoes of his own boots and the low hum of failing machinery accompanied him. He knew Wesker was here. He could feel it. The bastard had let him get this far. He always did. A figure stepped out of the shadows ahead, framed by flickering emergency lights—calm, composed, as if he were simply out for a casual stroll. His signature sunglasses gleamed, catching the pale red glow from the warning beacons. “Wesker.” Chris’s voice was steady, but his chest burned with adrenaline. “Chris,” Wesker greeted, as if they were still old teammates crossing paths in the S.T.A.R.S. office. “I expected you earlier.” Chris took a breath, gripping his sidearm tighter. “You don’t have to keep doing this.” Wesker’s smirk twitched. “Ah. We’re back to this again.” “You chose power. You chose Umbrella. But you can still walk away from this. End it. All of it.” Wesker tilted his head slightly, amused, but something flickered behind his expression—something Chris couldn’t quite name. “You think you still see who I was.” “I do see him,” Chris said, stepping forward. “The man who saved civilians. Who fought beside me. The man who was once my friend.” For a heartbeat, Wesker stood very still. His jaw tightened just slightly beneath the sunglasses. Chris almost thought— “—If only you had seen it sooner,” Wesker said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “But you were always blind, Chris. That’s why you’ve always been behind me.” The chill between them thickened. The brief vulnerability vanished like smoke. Wesker’s body shifted, faster than Chris could fully register. Suddenly, Wesker lunged. Chris barely had time to react. The blur of black leather and impossible speed came at him like a storm. He stumbled back as Wesker’s hand clamped around his throat, lifting him off his feet effortlessly. “You still don’t understand, do you?” Wesker’s voice was low, almost purring. “You and I were never equals.” Chris gasped, struggling against the vice grip. His feet kicked uselessly at the air. “Wesker—” he choked. “Always chasing me. Always behind. Always too late.” Wesker’s eyes glinted beneath his glasses. “But you’re persistent, I’ll give you that.” Chris’s fingers fumbled behind him, desperate, until they brushed against the control panel at his back. An old lever—a leftover part of the cargo system, still wired to the upper gantry. He only needed one chance. With the last of his strength, Chris yanked the lever down. The sound of groaning metal shrieked above them as a heavy stack of burning debris—containers, beams, and shattered scaffolding—gave way. Wesker’s eyes widened a fraction, realizing too late. The wreckage crashed down like a landslide. Wesker threw Chris aside at the last second—more instinct than mercy—but the falling debris clipped him, pinning his right side under molten, burning steel. An explosion of sparks burst across the floor as electricity arced wildly. Chris hit the ground hard, coughing, his vision swimming. But he forced himself up, staring across the wreckage. Wesker was trapped under the debris,engulfed in flame. For the first time, Chris heard him snarl—an ugly, pained sound that cut through the usual calm, cold control. His gloved hand clawed at the floor as he tried to push the wreckage off. The flames licked up the side of his face. The pale skin on the right side of his face blistered and burned, raw and furious. “Wesker!” Chris shouted hoarsely, but whether it was anger or something else, he wasn’t sure.