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December 24, 2003. Christmas Eve.
New York, Manhattan.
Another year of heavy snowfall gently enveloped the cold, hard lines of this steel metropolis in a blanket of pure white.
Inside a villa by the Seine River, warmth and laughter dispelled the bitter cold outside the windows.
The fire in the fireplace burned brightly, crackling and casting an orange-red glow on every face in the living room, each brimming with happiness.
The enormous Christmas tree that nearly touched the ceiling last year was once again brought in from the yard, adorned with colorful lights and decorations, emitting a crisp scent of pine.
The absolute center of the living room was no longer the Christmas tree, nor the fireplace.
It was that wide, soft sofa.
Claire reclined in the most comfortable corner of the sofa, a soft cashmere blanket draped over her, her entire being radiating a gentle, maternal glow.
Her pregnant belly swelled like a happy little hill.
"Hey! Little one! Move again for your uncle!"
Chris Redfield, the tough guy who struck fear into enemies on the battlefield, now resembled a big boy who had just gotten a new toy.
He clumsily, yet carefully, placed a stethoscope on Claire's belly, tilting his head to listen, his expression focused and comical.
"Oh! I heard it! I heard it! It's like... like a little drum!" He looked up in pleasant surprise, his eyes shining with a light they'd never held before.
"That's my son saying hello to you, Chris." Claire stroked her belly, her face unable to hide her happiness and pride.
"How do you know it's a son?" Chris muttered, unconvinced.
"What if it's a strong niece, just like me?" (That would be terrifying...)
"Pfft."
Jill and Rebecca, watching the siblings' usual banter from the side, couldn't help but laugh.
"Chris, if you keep this up, you'll definitely be the first person the baby doesn't recognize after it's born." Jill teased with a smile, holding a cup of hot cocoa.
Rebecca sat down next to Claire, looking curiously at her round belly, her eyes filled with wonder and blessings.
"It feels so miraculous, Claire. Life is like this—even in the most desperate places, it can bloom the most beautiful flower."
At the other end of the living room, a huge TV screen flickered with multicolored lights.
"Hey! Kid! Look here! Press this red button! Yes! Jump! Dodge that fireball!"
Barry Burton's booming voice almost drowned out the game's sound effects from the TV.
He clutched a game controller, gesturing animatedly as he taught the person beside him.
Sitting next to him was a boy who looked to be only about ten years old.
Jake Muller.
He wore a clean sweater that didn't quite fit him, one that Sherry had insisted on buying for him.
His back was ramrod straight, his hands gripping the controller. His eyes, which usually held a vigilance and coldness beyond his years, were now fixed unblinkingly on the screen.
It was his first time touching something called a "video game."
Everything here was novel to him.
The warm fireplace, the huge Christmas tree, and this bear-strong uncle beside him who, despite playing terribly, was still enthusiastically teaching him how to play.
Two little girls about his age—Barry's daughters, Moira and Polly—were gathered on either side of him, offering pointers and occasionally mercilessly mocking their father's clumsy gameplay.
A gentle woman, Barry's wife Kathy, approached with a tray of freshly baked cookies, smiling as she offered them to the three children.
No insults, no beatings, no hunger or cold.
Jack felt somewhat unaccustomed.
His fingers on the controller seemed a bit stiff. The little character on the screen clumsily fell into the lava, and the game over music played.
"Oh, damn! Died again!" Barry slapped his thigh in frustration.
"Don't lose heart, Jack! Let's play another round! I promise this time we'll definitely get past this level!"
Jack looked at Barry's face, full of frustration yet burning with fighting spirit, and nodded silently.
His heart, long filled with training and hatred, seemed to have been gently touched by something.
"Uncle Barry, Jack, would you like some juice?"
A clear voice rang out. Sherry, like a happy butterfly, walked over carrying a tray with two steaming cups of orange juice.
Sherry wore a cute Christmas-themed dress, busily attending to every guest, clearly acting the part of the hostess.
Seeing Sherry, the lines of Jack's perpetually tense little face softened unconsciously.
He took the juice and said quietly, "Thank you."
Sherry winked at him, then bounced away toward a corner of the living room.
There, Ada Wong sat quietly in a single armchair.
She wasn't wearing her signature fiery red cheongsam today, but an elegant black cashmere dress that made her seem less sharp and more softly relaxed.
She didn't join anyone's conversation, just a faint, genuine smile playing on her lips as she quietly watched the lively, warm scene before her.
Most of the time, her gaze rested on Claire's prominently rounded belly, a trace of longing she herself hadn't noticed flowing in her eyes.
Occasionally, her eyes would inadvertently drift toward the nearby kitchen.
There, two tall figures were busy.
"Hey! Leon! Too much salt! Are you trying to kill us with saltiness?" Noah, wearing an apron, looked helplessly at Leon as he dumped an entire spoonful of salt into the simmering cream of mushroom soup.
"Art! This is the art of cooking! You don't understand!" Leon retorted confidently, stirring the soup pot with gusto.
His eyes, however, kept stealing glances through the kitchen door toward the elegant figure in the black dress in the living room.
When Ada's gaze swept over, he immediately pretended to be fully focused on simmering the soup, wearing a confident "look how charming I am" smile on his face.
He firmly believed that the Spanish seafood paella he made last time had completely conquered that woman's stomach.
And today's cream of mushroom soup, improved by him and infused with "love and passion," would completely capture her heart.
Noah looked at his comrade-in-arms, who was like a living treasure, shook his head, and silently picked up another pot to prepare a new batch of soup.
Ada, watching Leon's slightly exaggerated performance in the kitchen, smiled even more deeply.
It was a kind of... pure joy she herself hadn't felt in a long time.
It's nice.
She thought.
***
I am Jack Krauser, a major in the military.
Or rather, I was.
The retirement process went smoothly, faster than I could have imagined.
As if those high-ranking bigwigs couldn't wait for me, this "hero" who knew too many secrets, to disappear from their sight.
I returned to a small house in the suburbs, given to me by the government as part of my "reward."
Very quiet.
Apart from the wind, I couldn't hear anything.
Once, I thought this was what I sought.
Away from gunfire, away from orders, away from death.
But when I finally had all this, I realized that sometimes silence feels more deafening than the roar of artillery on the battlefield.
I sat in the empty living room, holding a cup of long-cold Whiskey Toddy.
My military medals hung on the wall, my proud tactical dagger sat in the cabinet.
Now they were all just scrap metal.
What kind of soldier is a soldier without a war?
Involuntarily, I remembered the words that Eastern kid said to me.
That young man who gave me such a great shock in the South American rainforest.
"Maybe find a pretty girl, get married, have kids, and live out the rest of your life."
Ha, interesting.
Easy to say.
But what normal woman would want to get close to someone like me, with hands stained with blood and a devil in my heart?
I tilted my head back and drained the cold liquid in the glass.
The liquor burned down my throat like a fire in my chest.
My gaze fell on a photo frame on the table.
Inside the frame was a girl in a white dress.
Manuela.
The girl I protected during Operation Javier.
Her clear eyes, devoid of any impurity, always appeared before me in the dead of night when nightmares woke me.
To study and control the special veronica virus within her, she was sent to a secret Research Institute for observation and treatment.
With my clearance level, I had no right to inquire.
But those bureaucrats seemed to have realized a problem.
Manuela's mental health was equally important.
She had lived too long in that isolated estate, her only relative having died in that disaster.
I was the only person she was familiar with, someone she could call a "friend."
So, after a series of complex applications and approvals, a retired soldier obtained permission to visit her.
I stood up. The chair I'd sat in for too long let out a groan of protest.
Maybe... that guy Noah... was right... I put on my jacket and walked out of this house that made me feel suffocated.
Outside, the sky had darkened. Christmas decorations lit up the shops along the street.
Only then did I remember: today was Christmas Eve.
A day meant for family reunions.
At a roadside fruit stand, I bought a basket of fresh fruit, remembering she seemed to like mangoes and strawberries.
At a fancy-looking bakery, I bought an exquisitely packaged Black Forest Cake.
Passing by a gift shop, I stopped as if compelled.
In the window display sat an exquisite Music Box.
On its crystal lid, a dancing butterfly was carved.
Wind the key, and the crisp, melodious "Für Elise" would flow from within.
I paid. The clerk wrapped it in beautiful colored paper and ribbons, turning it into a proper Christmas gift.
Driving the black car provided by the military, I sped all the way to the secret Research Institute on the city's outskirts.
Tall walls, dense electrical fences, and hidden cameras.
This place didn't look like a Research Institute; it more closely resembled a maximum-security prison.
I parked, undergoing three strict identity verifications at the gate.
Metal detector, iris scan, fingerprint match.
A staff member in a white lab coat, expressionless, led the way.
We walked down a long, pure white corridor. The sound of leather shoes on the polished floor echoed monotonously and oppressively.
The air was thick with the smell of disinfectant.
Cold, pungent.
Finally, we stopped before a heavy metal door at the corridor's end.
The staff member entered a long string of codes into the control panel beside the door.
"Mr. Krauser, Young Miss Manuela is inside," he said formulaically. "Your visitation time is thirty minutes."
"Zzzz—"
The metal door slid open silently to one side.
The beautifully wrapped Christmas gift in my other hand felt somewhat heavy.
I took a deep breath and walked in...
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